Common  Clay 


:LEVES  KINKEAD 


FRENCHS  STANDARD 


AMUEL  FRENCH,  28-30  West  38th  St.,  New  Yorl 


THE  REJUVENATION  OF  AUNT  MARY. 

The  famous  comedy  in  three  acts,  by  Anne  Warner.  7  males,  i 
females.  Three  interior  scenes.  Costumes  modern.  Plays  3%  houff 

This  is  a  genuinely  funny  comedy  with  splendid  parts  for  "Aunt  Marx,' 
"Jack,"  her  lively  nephew;  "Lucinda,"  a  New  England  ancient  maid  of  all  work 
"Jack's"  three  chums;  the  Girl  "Jack"  loves;  "Joshua,"  Aunt  Mary's  hir6 
man,  etc. 

"Aunt  Mary"  was  played  by  May  Robson  in  New  York  and  on  tour  for  ove 
two  years,  and  it  is  sure  to  be  a  big  success  wherever  produced.  We  strong'1 
recommend  it.  Price,  60  Cents 

MRS.  BUMSTEAD-LEIGH. 

A  pleasing  comedy,  in  three  acts,  by  Harry  James  Smith,  author  o 
"The  Tailor-Made  Man."  6  males,  6  females.  One  interior  scene.  Cos 
tumes  modern.  Plays  2J4  hours. 

Mr.  Smith  chose  foi<  his  initial  comedy  the  complications  arising  from  th 
endeavors  of  a  social  climber  to  land  herself  in  the  altitude  peopled  by  hyphenate 
names — a  theme  permitting  innumerable  complications,  according  to  the  spirit  c 
the  writer. 

This  most  successful  comedy  was  toured  for  several  seasons  by  Mrs.  Fisk 
with  enormous  success.  Price,  60  Cent! 

MRS.  TEMPLE'S  TELEGRAM. 

A  most  successful  farce  in  three  acts,  by  Frank  Wyatt  and  WHHar 
Morris.  5  males,  4  females.  One  interior  scene  stands  throughout  tk 
three  acts.  Costumes  modern.  Plays  2%  hours. 

"Mrs.  Temple's  Telegram"  is  a  sprightly  farce  in  which  there  is  an  abund 
anee  of  fun  without  any  taint  of  impropriety  or  any  element  of  offence.  A 
neticed  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  "Oh,  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave  whea  first  w 
practice  to  deceive!" 

There  is  not  a  dull  moment  in  the  entire  farce,  and  from  the  time  the  cur-tat 
rises  until  it  makes  the  final  drop  the  fun  is  fast  and  furious.  A  very  exeeptioni 
farce.  Price,  60  Cent! 

THE  NEW  CO-ED. 

A  comedy  in  four  acts,  by  Marie  Doran,  author  of  "Tempest  an 
Sunshine,"  etc.  Characters,  4  males,  7  females,  though  any  number  o 
boys  and  girls  ^can  be  introduced  in  the  action  of  the  play.  One  interio 
and  one  exterior  scene,  but  can  be  easily  played  in  one  interior  scen< 
Costumes  modern.  Time,  about  2  hours. 

The  theme  of  this  play  is  the  coming  of  a  new  student  to  the  college^  he 
reception  by  the  scholars,  her  trials  and  final  triumph. 

There  are  three  especially  good  girls'  parts,  Letty,  Madge  and  Estells.  be 
the  others  have  plenty  to  do.  "Punch"  Doolittle  and  Georg-e  Washington  Watt! 
a  gentleman  of  color,  are  tw©  particularly  good  comedy  characters.  We  ca 
strongly  recommend  "Tfa«  New  Ga-Ed"  to  high  schools  and  amateurs. 

Price,  30  Cents 

(The  Above  Are  Su&Ject  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 


SAMU&U  FRENCH,  2S-30  West  38th  Street,  New  York  City 

$QW  and  Explicit  fcescriptiye  Catarog-ue  Mailed  Free 


COMMON  CLAY 

A  DRAMA  IN  FOUR  ACTS 


BY 

CLEVES  KINKEAD 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY  CLEVES  KINKEAD 
COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  CLEVES  KINKEAD 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


CAUTION:  Professionals  and  amateurs  are  hereby 
warned  that  "CpMMON  CLAY,"  being  fully  protected 
under  the  copyright  laws  of  the  United  States,  is  subject 
to  a  royalty,  and  any  one  presenting  the  play  without 
the  consent  of  the  owner  or  his  authorized  agents  will 
be  liable  to  the  penalties  by  law  provided.  Application 
for  amateur  acting  rights  must  be  made  to  SAMUEL 
FRENCH,  28-30  West  38th  Street,  New  York. 


NEW    YORK 

SAMUEL  FRENCH 

PUBLISHER 

28-30  WEST  38TH   ST. 


LONDON- 


SAMUEL   FRENCH,   Ltd. 

26    SOUTHAMPTON    STREET 

STRAND 


Especial  notice  should  be  taken  that  the  possession  of 
this  book  without  a  valid  contract  for  production  first 
having  been  obtained  from  the  publisher,  confers  no  right 
or  license  to  professionals  or  amateurs  to  produce  the  play 
publicly  or  in  private  for  gain  or  charity. 

In  its  present  form  this  play  is  dedicated  to  the  reading 
public  only,  and  no  performance,  representation,  produc 
tion,  recitation,  or  public  reading  may  be  given  except  by 
special  arrangement  with  Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th 
Street,  New  York. 

This  play  may  be  presented  by  amateurs  upon  payment 
of  a  royalty  of  Twenty-Five  Dollars  for  each  perform 
ance,  payable  to  Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th  Street, 
New  York,  one  week  before  the  date  when  the  play  is 
given. 

Whenever  the  play  is  produced  the  following  notice  must 
appear  on  all  programs,  printing  and  advertising  for  the 
play:  "Produced  by  special  arrangement  with  Samuel 
French  of  New  York." 

Attention  is  called  to  the  penalty  provided  by  law  for 
any  infringement  of  the  author's  rights,  as  follows: 

"SECTION  4966 : — Any  person  publicly  performing  or  rep 
resenting  any  dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which 
copyright  has  been  obtained,  without  the  consent  of  the 
proprietor  of  said  dramatic  or  musical  compositions,  or  his 
heirs  and  assigns,  shall  be  liable  for  damages  thereof, 
such  damages,  in  all  cases  to  be  assessed  at  such  sum,  not 
less  than  one  hundred  dollars  for  the  first  and  fifty  dol 
lars  for  every  subsequent  performance,  as  to  the  court 
shall  appear  to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  performance  and 
representation  be  wilful  and  for  profit,  such  person  or 
persons  shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  con 
viction  shall  be  imprisoned  for  a  period  not  exceeding  one 
year."— U.  S.  Revised  Statutes:  Title  60,  Chap.  3. 


DEDICATED  WITH  AFFECTION 

TO  MY  FATHER 

ROBERT  C.  KINKEAD 

OF  LOUISVILLE,  KENTUCKY 


329 


COMMON  CLAY 


CAST 

JUDGE  SAMUEL  FILSON 

RICHARD  FULLERTON 

HUGH  FULLERTON 

ARTHUR  COAKLEY 

W.  H.  YATES,  Attorney 

EDWARDS 

JUDGE  of  the  City  Court 

BAILIFF 

CLERK 

ELLEN  NEAL 

MRS.  FULLERTOX 

ANNE  FULLERTON 

Miss  WARREN 

MRS.  NEAL 

GUESTS,  OFFICERS,  SERVANT,  ETC.; 


SCENES 

ACT      I.  In  the  home  of  the  Fullertons,  Christ* 

mas,  1904. 

ACT    II.  Filson's  Law  Office,  October,  1905. 
ACT  III.  The  City  Court  Room,  the  next  morn 
ing. 
ACT  IV.  Same  as  ACT  I,  January,  1915. 

PLACE,*    An  American  City. 
TIME:     From  Christmas,  1904,  to  January,  1915. 


RIGHT 


n 
o 


COMMON  CLAY 


ACT  I 

SCENE:     In  the  home  of  the  FULLERTONS  on  an 

evening  in  the  Christmas  holidays,  1904.  Down^ 
stage  is  the  library  or  sitting  room,  which 
opens  thru  a  very  large  archivay  into  the  hall. 
A  stairway — wide,  with  bannisters,  comes  down 
into  hallway  from  the  right  of  stage  to  a  wide 
landing,  from  which  a  few  steps  come  down 
to  the  floor  of  hall,  all  in  view  of  the  audience 
thru  the  opening  from  the  sitting  room.  There 
are  entrances  thru  right  and  left  of  the  hall- 
ivay  off-stage.  There  is  also  an  entrance,  door, 
at  the  upper  left  of  library.  Lower  left  of 
library  is  a  fireplace,  and  right  of  library  is  a 
large  curtained  bow  window,  an  alcove  window- 
seat  with  pillows,  etc.  The  furnishings  of  the 
sitting  room  are  sumptuous  and  comfortable. 
In  the  center  of  the  room  is  a  large,  heavy 
table,  on  ^vhich  sits  a  large  bowl  of  creamy 
egg-nog  surrounded  by  small  cups,  and  a  tray 
with  a  decanter  of  whiskey,  high-ball  glasses, 
measuring  glasses,  and  a  dish  of  cracked  ice. 
There  are  several  leather  covered  easy-chairs, 
and  a  sofa  turned  slightly  tozvard  the  fireplace, 
but  facing  audience.  At  the  right  below 
window-seat  is  an  ornate  stand  lamp  with  a 
chair  adjacent.  On  the  library  wall  immediately 
left  of  archway  are  push-buttons  for  lighting 
5 


6  COMMON  CLAY 

electric  lights  in  library  and  to  summon  ser 
vants. 

There  are  bookcases  around  the  walls,  and 
there  are  pictures  and  portraits  of  prosperous 
looking  /te-FuLLETRONS  and  J/I^-FULLERTONS 
who  have  gone  before,  adding  lustre  to  the 
family  name  by  owning  property,  wearing  good 
clothes,  and  riding  in  carriages.  One  of  these 
portraits  hangs  over  fireplace. 

Left  of  stage  is  the  rear  of  the  residence  and 
the  front  door  can  be  heard  to  slam  off-stage  at 
the  right  end  of  hallway. 

AT  RISE:  The  stage,  brightly  lighted,  is  empty  of 
persons,  but  the  spirit  of  Christmas  and  holi 
days  pervades.  About  the  library  are  holly 
and  mistletoe,  a  bunch  of  the  latter  hanging 
from  center  of  ceiling.  The  music  of  a  two- 
step  of  the  period — a  medley  of  Harvard's 
"Our  Director"  and  the  Yale  "  Boola"  is 
heard  coming  from  upstairs — off-stage  before 
and  after  the  curtain  rises. 

After  a  half-minute  EDWARDS  enters  left 
door.  He  crosses  to  table,  tastes  a  glass  of  the 
egg-nog,  slyly,  and  tips  the  decanter,  letting 
some  of  the  whiskey  into  bowl. 

MRS.  FULLERTON  enters  from  door  left.  She 
is  a  tall,  handsome  woman,  faultlessly  dressed 
in  evening  gown.  Alt  ho  about  forty-eight,  she 
carries  her  years  so  lightly  and  dresses  with 
such  effect  that  she  is  still  physically  attractive, 
and  to  this  charm  there  is  added  with  the  years, 
a  certain  dignity  and  forcefulness. 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  (Observing  EDWARDS,  calmly) 
I  think  it  quite  strong  enough,  Edwards. 

EDWARDS.  (Starting)  I  beg  your  pardon, 
ma'am.  (Setting  decanter  on  its  tray  and  speaking 


COMMON  CLAY  7 

explanatorily)     Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year, 


(The  dance-music  comes  to  a  stop  and  is  supple 
mented  by  laughter  and  chatter  from  the  guests 
off-stage  above.  RICHARD  FULLERTON,  gray- 
haired  and  tall,  enters  coming  down  stairway.) 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  (To  EDWARDS)  But  we 
don't  make  that  an  excuse  for  intemperance — in  this 
house.  You  may  go. 

EDWARDS.  Yes,  ma'am.  (EDWARDS  exits  left 
door  as  FULLERTON  enters  library) 

FULLERTON.  Evelyn,  aren't  you  neglecting  our 
guests  ? 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  No,  Richard,  I'm  looking 
after  the  arrangements.  I'm  short  of  servants — 
Marie  left  yesterday. 

FULLERTON.    Marie?    Why  did  she  leave? 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  Oh,  she  began  to  know  too 
much.  (Sits  wearily)  Do  you  know,  Richard,  the 
servant  problem  gives  me  more  trouble  than  any 
thing  in  life.  Girls  of  to-day  simply  will  not  do 
menial  work.  It's  nothing  in  the  world  but  vanity. 

FULLERTON.  Yes,  I  know,  my  dear.  (Then  in  a 
reflective  tone)  But  I'd  hate  to  have  to  do  it  my 
self.  Still,  what  you  say  is  true.  This  country  is 
going  to  the  dogs  because  people  no  longer  know 
their  places. 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  Yes,  Richard,  I  know.  How 
do  you  think  Marie  answered  me  when  I  told  her 
that  she  could  have  her  time  off  any  Sunday  before 
breakfast,  if  she  wanted  to  go  to  church? 

FULLERTON.    How  ? 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  "  Oh,  no,  thank  you,  ma'am," 
she  said.  "  The  church  is  no  friend  of  the  working 
classes,  and  I'll  take  my  religion  on  Sunday  morn- 


8  COMMON  CLAY 

ings  where  you  take  your  breakfast — in  bed" 
(FULLERTON  laughs)  Oh,  you  may  think  it's  funny, 
but  if  there's  one  thing  we  must  have  from  a  servant, 
it  is  respect.  And,  Richard,  we  must  give  them 
respect  to  get  it  from  them.  I've  been  meaning 
to  speak  to  you  about  this.  The  other  day,  when 
Hugh  came  home  from  college,  he  chucked  Marie 
under  the  chin  rather  familiarly.  (FULLERTON 
smiles)  Now  I  know  Hugh's  a  good  boy,  but  he's 
just  at  the  age  where  he  thinks  it's  smart  to  be  a 
devil,  and  I  wish  you'd  speak  to  him  about  it. 

FULLERTON.  Nonsense,  my  dear.  The  boy's  a 
fine,  healthy  young  animal.  Nature  will  assert  it 
self.  We  all  have  to  go  through  that  stage  of  de 
velopment,  and  the  girl  may  have  egged  him  on. 

MRS.  FULLERTON.     Now,  isn't  that  like  a  man! 

FULLERTON.  Um.  Yes,  perhaps.  But  you  do 
like  your  old  husband,  don't  you,  darling?  (He 
puts  'her  on  the  cheek,  she  smiles) 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  Yes,  you're  a  good,  kind, 
thoughtful  boy;  and  we've  been  in  love  a  long 
time,  haven't  we,  dear? 

FULLERTON.  (Kisses  her)  We  have,  my  love. 
But  come,  let  us  go  upstairs  to  our  guests. 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  (Rising)  You  run  along, 
Richard.  Edwards  engaged  a  new  maid  this  morn 
ing,  and  I  want  to  speak  to  her  about  serving  the 
party  supper.  I  have  not  had  a  chance  to  look  her 
over,  and  I  don't  want  dowdy,  slouchy,  ill-dressed 
girls  about  the  house.  I  told  Edwards  to  get  one 
who  had  some  style  to  her,  and  I  want  to  see  her. 

FULLERTON.  Well,  I'll  leave  her  to  you.  I  never 
know  how  to  talk  to  women  in  that  position — (Exits 
up  stainvay) 

(ANNE  FULLERTON  passes  him  coming  down.  She 
taps  him  on  the  back  playfully  with  her  fan 
and  hastily  enters  the  library.  ANNE  is  a  good 


COMMON  CLAY 

looking  young  woman,  to  the  manner  born,  at 
tired  in  evening  gown.  She  is  of  that  type  of 
woman  wfto  in  youth  are  seriously  frivolous, 
and  develop  into  capable  wives  after  their  hus 
band-hunting,  in  a  guise  of  pleasure-seeking, 
is  ended.) 

ANNE.  Oh,  mother,  I've  been  looking  for  you. 
Don't  you  think  it's  about  time  that  supper  came 
along  upstairs? 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  I'm  arranging  for  that  now. 
I'm  going  to  have  the  new  maid  assist  Edwards. 

ANNE.  Dear  old  mother,  always  to  be  relied  on. 
(She  kisses  her  mother)  I  hope  I'll  be  as  good  a 
head  of  the  house  as  you  are. 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  (Pinching  ANNE'S  cheek) 
Philip  must  have  proposed  again  this  evening, 

ANNE.  He  went  a  step  further.  (She  pauses 
while  her  mother  looks  inquisitive)  He  became 
engaged  to  me. 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  Well,  I  know  that  when  we 
turn  you  over  to  Philip,  you'll  be  in  safe  hands,  my 
chick.  I'm  very  happy  to  feel  that  both  you  and 
Hugh  have  been  good  children  and  deserve  all  the 
advantages  that  you've  had. 

ANNE.  There  now,  Muddy  dear,  you  needn't  get 
in  the  mood  for  sermons  just  because  I'm  going  to 
be  married.  (EDWARDS  enters  L.  with  tray  of 
salads)  Ah,  here  comes  Edwards  now  with  the 
things.  Well,  I'll  get  back  to  the  ballroom.  (She 
blows  a  kiss  to  her  mother  and  exits  up  stairway) 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  Edwards,  do  you  think  that 
new  maid  could  help  you  to  serve  the  supper  ? 

EDWARDS.  There's  something  about  Jer,  my  lady, 
which  suggests  capability — with  the  proper  training 
— such  as  I  might  give  'er- — -  ^ 

MRS.     FULLERTON.       (Smiling)       Very     well, 


10  COMMON  CLAY 

Edwards.  I  want  you  to  give  her  the  necessary 
directions. 

EDWARDS.    Very  well,  ma'am. 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  But  Edwards,  I  want  to  look 
her  over  and  have  a  word  with  her.  Will  you  send 
her  in? 

(EDWARDS  bows,  deposits  his  tray  on  table  by  de 
canter  and  exits  L.  In  a  moment  he  returns, 
followed  by  ELLEN.) 

EDWARDS.  The  young  person.  (Exits,  going  up 
stairs  with  tray  from  table) 

(There  are  strained  recognitions  exchanged  between 
MRS.  FULLERTON  and  ELLEN.  ELLEN,  in  maid's 
attire,  is  of  good  figure  and  pretty  face.  There 
is  about  her  voice  a  low  and  subdued  quality 
which  makes  for  sympathy,  and  her  eyes  have 
a  similar  appeal — they  seem  just  now  on  the 
verge  of  tears.  She  is  plainly  embarrassed 
and  sensitive  to  her  present  surroundings;  her 
embarrassment,  for  a  moment,  is  transmitted  to 
MRS.  FULLERTON,  who,  however,  catches  her- 
self  and  speaks.) 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  You  are  the  new  girl?  What 
is  your  name? 

ELLEN.    I'm  Miss — er — *ny  name  is  Neal. 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  (Looks  at  the  girl)  What  is 
your  first  name? 

ELLEN.    My  first  name?    Oh,  yes — Ellen. 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  You  don't  like  to  be  called  by 
your  first  name,  is  that  it,  Ellen? 

ELLEN.    Well,  er  yes,  that  must  be  it — but  I  know 
how  these  things  are,  ma'am. 
^  MRS.    FULLERTON.      They    are — and    must    be, 
Ellen.    A  wisdom  greater  than  our  own  has  made 


COMMON  CLAY  it 

us  what  we  are,  and  placed  us  where  we  are,  and 
we  must  not  question,  but  must  know  our  places — • 
and  be  content  with  them.  (Sits) 

ELLEN.  Yes'm,  I  know — but  it's  easier  to  be  con 
tent  with  some  places  than  with  others.  (MRS. 
FULLERTON  gives  her  a  quick  glance,  but  there  is  no 
impudence  in  ELLEN'S  look)  Meaning  no  offense, 
ma'am,  I  was  just  speaking  what  popped  into  my 
head.  (Looking  around  the  room  with  approval) 
I  wisht  I'd  bin  born  here.  It  would  have  been 
better  for  me,  I  know  that.  That's  one  reason  I 
came  here.  I  thought  there'd  be  so  much  I  could 
learn  in  a  place  like  this — with  people  like  you, 
ma'am — good  people.  I  want  to  learn  things.  Not 
things  you  learn  at  school,  ma'am.  I've  been  to  the 
ward  schools  and  almost  into  the  High  School,  but 
there  are  things  that  you  can  only  learn  from  people 
— from  good  people,  you  know.  You  don't  know 
what  it  might  mean  to  a  girl  to  be  reared  here.  It's 
the  difference  between  having  a  chance  and  not  hav 
ing  one,  ma'am.  That's  why  I'm  here — nobody  likes 
to  be  a  servant!  But  I'm  willing  to  be  one  long 
enough  to  learn  things. 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  Yes,  long  enough  to  learn 
things — that's  the  way  the  girl  who  just  left  me  did. 
(Reproachfuly)  As  soon  as  she  had  learned  enough 
to  be  useful  here  she  left. 

ELLEN.  (Suppressing  a  laugh)  Maybe  she 
wanted  to  get  along  in  the  world,  as  you  teach  your 
young  ones  to  do — and  she  couldn't  get  far  by  stick 
ing  to  a  housemaid's  job. 

(Music  starts,  low.) 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  (Biting  her  lip)  Perhaps  not 
^-but  we're  not  here  to  discuss  that,  Ellen.  (Rises) 
My  son  is  home  from  college  for  Christmas,  and  the 
young  people  are  having  a  dance  upstairs 


12  COMMON  CLAY; 

(A  door  is  heard  to  open  from  above,  music  louder. 
The  girl  listens  with  a  rapt  expression,  and  then 
spontaneously  interrupts  MRS.  FULLERTON.) 

ELLEN.  Oh,  yes,  there's  the  music  now — ( Uncon 
sciously  she  lilts  her  body  to  the  rhythm  of  the 
music)  Oh,  but  it's  great  to  dance — I  love  it,  some 
body  told  me  once  I  was  made  for  life  and  joy. 
(She  catches  the  disapproving  and  surprised  look  of 
MRS.  FULLERTON,  and  her  features  fall)  But  they're 
wrong,  ma'am,  for  every  time  I  have  a  good  time 
I  get  into  trouble.  I  suppose  I  was  made  for  work, 
ma'am. 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  At  least  that  is  what  you  are 
here  for,  Ellen.  I  hope  you  have  many  good  times, 
but  you  came  here  for  work.  (The  sound  of  the 
door  closing  off-stage  stops  music  and  laughter  from 
the  ballroom  above.  MRS.  FULLERTON  gives  ELLEN 
a  parting  looking-over  and  moves  toward  the  stair 
way.  As  she  does  so,  EDWARDS  is  coming  down 
stairs)  Edwards  will  tell  you  what  to  do,  Ellen. 

ELLEN.    Yes,  ma'am. 

(MRS.  FULLERTON  exits  up  stairway,  and  EDWARDS 
comes  into  the  room  carrying  his  tray  now 
empty,  and  cooly  sizes  up  ELLEN  in  the  manner 
of  a  drill  master  looking  over  a  raw  recruit. 
ELLEN  bristles  at  this.  He  slowly  and  pom 
pously  hands  her  the  tray,  she  hesitates  about 
taking  it.) 

EDWARDS.  Hellen,  you  are  to  serve  the  hices. 
(Shakes  the  tray  at  her.  She  takes  it  resentfully) 

ELLEN.     My  name  is  Ellen,  Hedward. 

EDWARDS.  And  I'm  to  be  addressed  as  Hedwards 
— not  Hedward.  Use  my  last  name  and  don't  leave 
off  the  hess. 


COMMON  CLAY  13 

ELLEN.  Very  well,  Edwards,  I  won't  leave  off  the 
hess  if  you  leel  it's  coming  to  you.  (EDWARDS 
gasps)  I  understand  that  you  are  to  tell  me  what 
to  do. 

EDWARDS.  Have  no  fear  that  I  won't  tell  you, 
Missy.  But  before  I  do,  I  want  to  let  you  know 
that  you  are  now  in  service  in  a  house  where  each 
must  know  'is  or  'er  place.  (ELLEN  winces  and 
starts  to  interrupt  him,  but  EDWARDS  holds  up  his 
hand  for  silence  and  proceeds  majestically)  For 
more  than  twenty  years  I  'ave  served  this  'ousehold, 
and  a  man  of  my  parts  would  not  lend  'is  talents 
to  such  service  were  it  not  honorable. 

ELLEN.  (Patiently  bored)  Yes,  no  doubt — 'but 
what  am  I  to  do? 

EDWARDS.  I  am  coming  to  that.  You  will  find 
me  a  man  of  few  words 

ELLEN.     When? 

EDWARDS.  (Angered)  When  I  have  spoken 
what's  in  my  mind,  Missy.  From  your  manner  to 
ward  me  I'm  afraid  you  do  not  h-appreciate  the 
advantages  of  serving  in  the  'ome  of  one  of  the 
oldest  families  in  this  State.  But  look  at  me — I 
started  in  'ere  as  the  man — now  I  am  what  you 
might  call 

ELLEN.  The  jellyfish.  (Laughing  spontaneously) 
Oh,  they've  taken  away  your  spine. 

EDWARDS.  (Infuriated)  You  impudent  little 
hussy.  I'll  see  that  you  get  your  walking  papers — • 

ELLEN.  (Struggling  for  her  composure)  Oh,  I 
know  I  oughtn't  to  say  things  like  that,  Edwards, 
let's  make  it  up  and  get  along  together.  (He  is 
obdurate  and  she  approaches  him  coaxingly)  Maybe 
I've  been  too  fresh.  (He  shows  signs  of  relenting 
and  she  smiles)  Let's  make  it  up  and  get  along 
together. 

EDWARDS.  Sure,  we'll  be  friends,  little  one.  (He 
grabs  her  and  tries  to  kiss  her.  She  jerks  away) 


I4  COMMON  CLAY 

ELLEN.  You  old  beast — You're  the  one  who'll 
go  now — do  you  think  I'm  going  to  stand  for  this? 
I'll  tell—  (She  starts  toward  hallway,  but  EDWARDS 
greatly  concerned  blocks  the  way) 

EDWARDS.  'Ere,  don't  go  on  so — There's  nothing 
to  gain  by  telling.  (Smiles)  Lord,  Miss  Ellen, 
mums  the  word  in  such  matters  for  'igh  and  low. 
If  I'd  told  all  I've  seen — nobody  would  be  better 
off  and  many  would  be  worse,  including  poor  old 
Edwards.  (His  propitiating  manner  revealing  him 
self  as  an  old  groveler  from  long  training,  mollifies 
the  girl)  There  now,  you  know  I'm  right,  Miss 
Ellen.  Keep  things  'ushed  up  and  there's  no  'arm 
in  them — sssh — Here  comes  someone — be  moving 
those  drinks — quick 

(ARTIE  COAKLEY  is  coming  down  the  stairway. 
EDWARDS  points  to  decanter  and  glasses  on 
table.  He  makes  a  hasty  exit  L.  and  leaves 
ELLEN.  She  puts  one  tall  glass  on  tray,  which 
she  holds,  then  hesitates  and  fumbles,  uncer 
tain  which  tray  to  use.  Meanwhile  COAKLEY 
comes  downstairs  slozvly  and  uncertainly. 
ELLEN  has  not  seen  him  as  yet.  He  is  ap 
parently  intoxicated,  tho'  his  movements  are  not 
exaggerated  and  his  manner  not  boisterous. 
As  he  walks  into  the  room  he  notices  the  tray 
and  decanter  and  is  so  intent  on  them  that  he 
does  not  lift  his  eyes  to  the  girl's  face.  He 
smiles  and  gives  a  sigh  of  relief,  the  sigh  of  a 
man  whose  next  drink  is  his  greatest  problem — 
no^v  solved.  COAKLEY  is  a  rather  tall,  slender 
man,  very  young  in  appearance  with  the  weakest 
of  faces  and  the  latest  of  evening  clothes  of  the 
period.  He  swaggers  with  the  air  of  a 
youngster  who  is  always  having  a  perfectly 
ripping  time — a  man  of  pleasure  who  doesn't 
care  who  knows  he's  drunk  and  dressed  up.  His 


COMMON  CLAY  15 

only  concern  is  that  ELLEN,  who  has  her  back 
to  him,  may  take  azvay  the  drinks,  so  he  speaks 
sharply  as^he  takes  hold  of  decanter.) 

COAKLEY.  Stop  where  you  are,  girl — (Snapping 
fingers,  speaking  oratorically)  let  those  drinks  lie. 

(ELLEN,  startled,  turns  to  COAKLEY,  then  drops  the 
tray  with  a  bang  and  the  glass  breaks  on 
floor.) 

ELLEN.    Artie  Coakley,  oh,  my  God! 

(COAKLEY  looks  at  her  a  moment  blinking,  and  then 
recognises  her.) 

COAKLEY.  Little  Ellen  Neal — what  the  Hell  are 
you  doing  here? 

ELLEN.    You're  no  more  surprised  than  I  am. 

COAKLEY.  It  takes  a  lot  to  surprise  me  when  I'm 
drinking.  (He  pours  out  a  drink  in  small  glass, 
tosses  it  off,  smacks  his  lips,  and  holds  the  decanter 
by  its  neck,  swinging  it)  God,  I  was  dry.  (Then 
points  to  broken  glass)  Better  pick  up  that  junk, 
girl. 

ELLEN.  Haven't  you  got  the  decency  to  help 
me — I  don't  see  as  you're  so  much  better  than  I  am. 
(Gets  down  on  her  knees) 

COAKLEY.  Right  you  are,  girl,  and  your  little 
Artie  is  no  proud  child  of  Fortune — simple,  unaf 
fected —  (She  picks  up  the  debris,  puts  it  on  tray) 
Yes,  simple  as  a  shepherd  boy 

(ELLEN  rises  and  gives  COAKLEY  a  contemptuous 
look.) 

ELLEN.  Well,  to  think  that  you  are  in  society. 
That  gets  me.  (She  puts  the  tray  on  table) 


i6  COMMON  CLAY 

COAKLEY.  (Pouring  drink)  Gets  you — why 
should  it  get  you  ?  Didn't  I  always  tell  you  who  I 
was?  (Sips  drink  nonchalantly) 

ELLEN.  Every  bum  tells  us  that  he  is  a  society 
man. 

COAKLEY.  Tisn't  what  they  tell  you — girls  like 
you  mustn't  fall  for  that  stuff — but  it's  the  way  a 
man  looks  and  acts  that  lets  you  know  he's  a  gentle 
man- 

ELLEN.  (Sarcastically)  But  what  if  the  gentle 
man  is  generally  drunk? 

COAKLEY.  (Sipping  drink)  You  can  always  tell 
a  gentleman  by  the  way  he  carries  his  liquor — 
(Pauses  and  swaggers)  and  I'm  welcome  in  all 
kinds  of  society. 

ELLEN.  I  don't  believe  you're  making  such  a  hit 
here. 

CHARLEY.  (With  lordly  indifference)  Tut,  tut, 
little  playmate,  I  don't  want  to  make  a  hit  here — 
It's  the  tamest  affair  /  ever  attended — (Pointing 
upward)  Not  a  drop  to  drink  upstairs.  (Stroking 
decanter)  I  tried  to  drink  enough  before  I  came 
but — (Shakes  his  head,  pouring  another  drink) 
that  never  works.  It  throws  me  off  my  schedule 
if  the  drinks  don't  come  at  regular  intervals. 
(Pauses)  Then  I  hit  the  ceiling.  (Puts  down  de 
canter,  holding  drink  in  his  hand)  I  came  here  to 
night  just  to  please  mother.  She's  keen  on  the 
Fullertons.  But  personally  I  prefer  society  that's  a 
bit  more  exciting.  (Sips  drink)  I'd  rather  paint 
the  town  with  a  good  little  scout  like  you.  (With 
an  inspiration,  enthusiastically)  I  tell  you  what 
lesh  do — lesh  get  a  sea-going  hack  and  drive  the 
old  horse  by  the  tail  through  an  ocean  of  drinks. 
(He  edges  toward  her  smiling,  still  holding  drink , 
and  pecks  at  her  lips  with  his) 

ELLEN.    You  let  me  alone,  Artie  Coakley 

COAKLEY.     (Surprised)     You're  a  virtuous  one 


COMMON  CLAY  17 

all   of   a   sudden — what's   getting   into   you,    little 
wayside  wanderer? 

ELLEN.  I'm  straight — I  am  straight  now — I  tell 
you — (He  smiles)  And  you've  got  to  treat  me  that 
way. 

COAKLEY.  Back  to  the  fold,  eh?  But  can  you 
come  back?  That'sh  the  question.  Man  can  go 
straight — (Indicating  a  straight  line  with  his  finger) 
then  crooked — (Making  a  meandering  gesture  with 
finger)  then  straight — (Another  gesture)  But 
woman — ah,  lovely  woman — straight — (Gesture) 
or  crooked — (Gesture)  One  or  the  other. 

ELLEN.    It's  not  fair. 

COAKLEY.  (Shrugging  shoulders  and  giving  a 
gesture  of  dismissal)  Nothing's  fair — you  think 
you'll  brace  up — (Anti-climactic ally)  and  be  a 
house-maid.  (Laughs)  What'sh  the  use — you 
won't  be  treated  with  respec'  any  more  than  if  you're 
crooked — (ELLEN  winces)  Facts — hard  cold  facts, 
girl — facts  got  to  be  looked  in  the  face.  So  you're 
going  to  be  an  honest  working  girl — (Laughs)  all 
right — all  right — here's  what  you'll  get,  (Stand's 
erect  and  snaps  his  fingers)  "  Ellen,  run  upstairs 
and  get  Miss  Anne's  rubbers."  (He  makes  motion 
with  feet  as  of  one  running,  pauses,  and  then- 
imitates  a  feminine  voice)  "  Put  them  on  me,  Ellen, 
and  do  hurry  or  I'll  miss  half  the  first  act."  "  And 
Ellen,  see  that  Mr.  Hugh's  breakfast  doesn't  get 
cold — he'll  sleep  late  this  morning."  You  come 
along  with  me — we'll  leave  this  dull  place  without 
saying  we've  had  a  pleasant  evening,  which  would 
be  all  a  damned  lie.  (He  lurches  toward  ELLEN, 
grabs  her  and  kisses  her,  while  she  struggles.  She 
breaks  away  and  sends  him  reeling  with  a  blow 
across  the  face.  He  staggers  to  table  for  support 
and  steadies  himself,  glaring  at  her  angrily) 

ELLEN.  Do  you  think  I  was  made  to  be  hunted 
by  a  pack  of  little  dogs  like  you? 


,8  COMMON  CLAY 

COAKLEY.  (Angrily,  as  he  strokes  his  face) 
You've  come  to  be  quite  a  tigress,  eh — but  what's  the 
use  of  your  getting  gay  with  me — me — when  you 
know  that  I  know  all  about  you 

(HUGH  FULLERTON,  youthful,  tall,  handsome  and 
athletic,  comes  down  the  stairway.  He  is  of 
the  manner  which  comes  of  being  well-liked 
and  of  having  his  path  made  easy  and  free 
from  struggle.  He  is  conscious  of  his  ad 
vantages  and  position  but  not  disagreeably  so; 
in  fact,  they  rather  sweeten  his  nature,  but  give 
him  the  attitude  of  feeling  that  all  that  he  de 
sires  he  should  reach  out  and  take.  ELLEN  sees 
HUGH  coming  down  the  stairway.  She  becomes 
nervous,  grabs  tray  with  broken  glass,  and 
makes  a  hasty  exit,  not  however  until  HUGH 
has  entered  the  room  and  discovered  her  dis 
appearing  through  the  door  L.  HUGH  smiles 
and  approaches  COAKLEY.) 

HUGH.  Hello — what's  up?  (Laughs)  Don't 
mind  me,  I'm  only  the  son  of  the  house.  You  don't 
lose  much  time.  I  didn't  even  know  she  was  in  my 
home.  I'll  have  to  pin  a  rose  on  you,  Art,  as  a 
discriminating  pleasure  seeker. 

COAKLEY.  All  I  got  was  a  slap  in  the  face. 
(HUGH  laughs)  She's  a  little  Hell-cat,  Hugh. 

HUGH.  (Lights  a  cigarette  and  smiles)  Your 
trouble  is  right  here.  (He  indicates  the  de 
canter  and  glasses)  You  can't  mix  this  stuff  with 
women.  But  I'll  admit  you're  a  wizard,  Art, 
mysteriously  disappearing  from  the  ball-room,  leav 
ing  me  to  dance  two  dances  with  that  heavy  Burton 
girl  while  you  come  downstairs,  lap  up  liquor  and 
flirt  with  the  housemaid.  I  like  the  way  you  make 
yourself  at  home. 


COMMON  CLAY  19 

COAKLEY.  (Pouring  a  drink)  Excellent  whiskey 
— have  one  ?  * 

HUGH.  Thank  you — I  may  take  just  a  wee  one. 
(He  seats  himself,  crosses  his  legs,  holds  up  the 
decanter,  of  whiskey  to  the  light  and  squints  at  it 
while  COAKLEY  tosses  off  his  drink)  Ah,  that's 
pretty,  and  look  at  the  bead  on  it.  (HUGH  mixes  a 
mild  highball  and  sips  it) 

COAKLEY.  (Wiping  his  mouth)  Hugh,  you're 
a  good  friend — not  to  get  sore  at  the  old  souse — • 
that's  what  I  am — the  acknowledged  social  souse — • 
There  you  are,  playing  with  that  liquor  as  a  cat  with 
a  mouse,  and  here  I  charge  it  like  a  bull  and  go 
down  in  the  fight.  Same  way  with  women — you'll 
never  be  caught.  Everybody  in  town  knows  about 
me  and  they've  already  closed  the  doors  against  me 
in  some  homes.  I'm  going  down  and  you're  just 
easing  along,  having  your  fling  in  a  quiet  way  and 
never  the  worse  for  it. 

HUGH.  It's  temperance,  old  boy.  Don't  overdo 
the  thing.  (Sips  drink)  And  don't  mix  your 
crowds — You  can't  appear  at  the  theatre  with  a  live 
wire  one  evening  and  then  expect  the  Winthrops  or 
the  Carters  to  have  you  to  dinner  the  next.  Why 
don't  you  brace  up,  old  fellow? 

COAKLEY.  Hugh,  there's  a  streak  in  my  family — • 
you  know  that.  It's  born  in  me — I'm  an  alcoholic 
and  a  weakling  about  everything.  (He  reaches  for 
the  decanter,  pouring  another) 

HUGH.  What  were  you  saying  to  that  new  maid, 
Art? 

COAKLEY.  Oh,  just  talking  over  old  times. 
(Rubbing  his  cheek)  Nasty  slap  she  gave  me,  damn 
her • 

HUGH.    Sssh ! 

COAKLEY.  I'll  settle  with  her — all  I  did  was 
tj  remind  'er  of  old  days  and  she  slapsh  m'face. 

HUGH.    You  knew  her  before? 


20  COMMON  CLAY 

COAKLEY.  Sure,  she's  a  live  little  one — regular 
fellow — loafs  around  Bender's  place. 

HUGH.  (Surprised}  Around  Bender's!  Are 
you  sure? 

COAKLEY.  (Drinking  again)  Surest  thing  you 
know,  son.  (Music)  Take  the  word  of  a  seasoned 
old  scout.  She  is  the  Belle  of  Bender's  Dance  Hall ; 
and  here  she  bobs  up  like  a  bad  dream  and  slaps  my 
face  like  injured  innocence.  Damned  insult  for  a 
woman  like  that  to  come  into  gentleman's  house  and 
slap  faces  of  guests.  (Rubs  face)  I'm  a  man  of 
sensitive  nature. 

(ELLEN  enters  left  with  tray  of  ices.  She  passes 
through  library,  goes  upstairs  and  exits  up, 
She  is  self-conscious  and  embarrassed, 
COAKLEY  attends  the  decanter,  but  HUGH 
crosses  nearly  to  stairs,  looks  at  ELLEN  with 
youthful  delight  as  she  goes  upstairs.  Crosses 
to  center  then  down  left  of  table.  Door  slams. 
Music  stops.) 

HUGH.  (After  ELLEN'S  exit — enthusiastically) 
She's  a  peach! 

COAKLEY.  (Waving  hand)  She's  yours — if  you 
don't  let  her  bluff  you.  (HUGH  smiles  at  the  pros 
pect.  COAKLEY  approaches  him  and  drunkenly  pats 
his  hands  on  HUGH'S  shoulders.  His  legs  wobble) 
Oh,  I  know  all  about  her.  Little  Artie  was  with  her 
right  from  the  start.  And  what  do  you  think  shs 
tried  to  tell  me? 

HUGH.    What? 

COAKLEY.  (Laughing  foolishly)  Said  she  was 
'straight — now. 

HUGH.  (Considering)  Maybe  she  wants  to 
change  her  ways. 

COAKLEY.  (With  conviction)  Too  late — it's 
been  tried  before.  That'sh  what  I  tried  to  tell  her 


COMMON  CLAY  21 

I  tried  to  reason  with  her  and  to  tell  her  that  she 
can't  brace  up.^  An  she  slaps  m'  face.  I  tell  you, 
Hugh  Fullertoit  that  a  woman  that  slaps  the  face 
of  kind  hearted  sensitive  gent'man  who'sh  trying 
to  talk  reason  to  her — I  tell  you  that  woman  who 
hurts  the  feelings  of  sens'tive  man  will  come  to  no 
good.  Mark  my  words,  Hugh,  she'll  come  to  no 
good.  I'm  hurt  in  the  feelings,  old  mansh.  Have 
strong  desire  to  weep.  (COAKLEY  staggers,  grabs  at 
table,  misses  it  and  HUGH,  laughing  boyishly,  catches 
him  under  the  arm-pits  as  COAKLEY  almost  sits  on 
the  floor,  and  seats  him  in  chair  left  of  table. 
COAKLEY  sits  dazed) 

HUGH.  Sit  steady  in  the  boat,  Artie.  I'll  run 
outdoors  and  find  a  cab  for  you  and  get  you  out 
before  anyone  sees  you. 

(COAKLEY  nods  compliance.) 

COAKLEY.  (Stupidly)  You're  a  good  fellow, 
Hugh.  (HUGH  exits  through  arch  R.  to  front  door) 
You're  the  frien'  of  every  drinking-mansh. 

(ANNE  FULLERTON  enters  coming  downstairs f  call* 
ing.) 

ANNE.  Hugh,  oh,  Hugh.  (Sees  COAKLEY  and 
approaches  him,  talking)  Oh,  Artie,  why  aren't 
you  dancing?  You  must  come  upstairs  and  help 
me  out.  Edith  Burton  is  stuck  again.  (COAKLEY 
blinks.  ANNE  then  realizes  he  is  drunk)  Why, 
Artie  Coakley,  what  do  you  mean  by  this — in  my 
house?  (Goes  front  of  table,  looking  at  ARTIE  with 
peevish  disgust) 

COAKLEY.  (Rousing  and  smiling  laboriously) 
Thash  all  right,  Annie.  Don't  you  worry,  I'm  all 
right. 


22  COMMON  CLAY 

ANNE.  I'd  hate  to  see  my  brother  in  your  con 
dition. 

(COAKLEY  looks  up  with  insinuating  grin.) 

COAKLEY.  You  won't — he'sh  got  sense  nuff  to  go 
to  Turk'sh  bath — now  wisht  me  it's  different. 
(Laughs)  But  you  mustn't  be  mad,  Anne.  Don't 
be  peeved  with  the  old  souse.  Somebody's  got  to  get 
lit  to  make  the  party  go — everybody's  glad  to  see 
other  feller's  foot  slip — makes  'em  laugh — gives  'em 
gossip.  Don't  you  worry  because  I  got  tide  on — oh, 
what  a  tide.  (Feels  his  head  and  yawns,  then 
droivses  off) 

ANNE.  (Crosses  to  foot  of  stairway  as  ELLEN 
enters  from  stairway)  Ellen,  run  upstairs  quickly — 
(ELLEN  turns)  and  bring  Mr.  Coakley's  hat  and 
coat. 

ELLEN.     Yes,  ma'am. 

ANNE.  Hurry  now.  (ELLEN  hastens  upstairs 
and  exits.  ANNE  returns  to  COAKLEY  and  shakes 
him  vigorously)  Don't  you  go  to  sleep,  Artie. 
Wake  up,  I  say. 

COAKLEY.  (Roused  by  the  shaking,  looking  into 
her  face,  she  on  his  left)  How  beautiful  you  are, 
my  dear.  (She  is  peeved — he  pauses)  You  know, 
whiskey^  makes  all  women  seem  more  beautiful. 
But  I  didn't  dream  that  a  woman  could  be  so  beauti 
ful,  Anne. 

ANNE.     Let's  don't  talk  about  that,  Artie. 

COAKLEY.  (Rising  laboriously)  Can't  help  it, 
mj  dear.  What  man  saysh  when  hesh  drunk  's  what 
he  thinksh  when  hesh  sober.  How  beautiful  y'are, 
my  dear.  (COAKLEY  grabs  ANNE'S  hand,  she  walks 
to  right  trying  to  break  away.  He  gets  his  arm 
around  her  and  tries  to  kiss  her.  HUGH  enters  R. 
and  seizes  COAKLEY.  ELLEN  comes  down  stairway 
with  silk  hat  overcoat  and  cane  in  time  to  see 


COMMON  CLAY  23 

COAKLEY'S  attempt  to  kiss  ANNE.    ANNE  intervenes 
between  HUGH  and  COAKLEY) 

ANNE.  Hugh,  don't  make  a  scene.  Artie  didn't 
realize  what  he  did. 

(HUGH  releases  COAKLEY.  ELLEN  hands  HUGH 
hat  which  he  puts  on  COAKLEY  far  back  on  the 
head,  then  coat,  which  he  throws  over 
COAKLEY'S  shoulders.  COAKLEY  blinks,  grad 
ually  taking  in  the  situation.  He  takes  cane 
proffered  by  ELLEN,  deriving  a  wobbly  support 
therefrom  as  he  speaks.) 

COAKLEY.  Gent'man  of  sens'tive  nature  knows 
what  it  means  to  have  coat  and  hat  put  on  him.  I 
go — (Bows)  and  when  I  go  there'sh  one  less'h  gent'- 
man  in  this  house — (Bows  directly  to  ANNE,  hat  in 
hand)  Adieu,  Mademoiselle,  my  mama  tole  me  to 
say  that'sh  a  very  pleasant  evening.  But  if  you 
want  to  know  what  I  think,  it's  a  damned  tame 
party.  (Exits  R.  staggering.  A  fall  is  heard  in  hall 
way.  ANNE  and  ELLEN  look  R.  and  listen.  HUGH 
exits  thru  hallway  right,  hastily)  Thank  sir, 

{The  front  door  is  heard  to  open  and  there  is  a 
voice  out  of  doors.) 

VOICE.  (Off-stage)  Keb  sir — here  you  are,  sir 
• — keb  sir. 

HUGH.  (Off-stage)  Here,  take  good  care  of 
him,  cabby ! 

CABBY.    Oh,  I've  had  him  before,  sir. 

COAKLEY.  A'right  cabby — I  gesh  you  know 
where  to  take  gent'man  after  sh'ball  ish  over. 

VOICE.  Ay  sir — nothings  too  good  for  you,  sir. 
Mind  the  stair,  sir.  That's  it. 

(The  door  slams  and  HUGH  comes  back.    He  and 


24  COMMON  CLAY 

ANNE  look  at  each  other,  standing  in  the  door 
way.    ANNE  pats  HUGH  on  shoulder.) 

ANNE.  You've  always  been  a  good  brother  to 
me. 

HUGH.  Pretty  poor  sort  of  man  who  wouldn't 
keep  a  fellow  from  insulting  his  sister.  Artie  had 
his  nerve — trying  to  kiss  you. 

(ELLEN  watches  this  performance  with  a  curious 
interest  and  goes  off  through  library  L.  As 
she  exits  at  door  she  wipes  her  eye  with  the 
edge  of  her  apron  which  she  gathers  up.  This 
is  all  unobserved  by  the  brother  and  sister.) 

ANNE.  Didn't  he  though!  A  girl  doesn't  mind 
being  kissed,  but  she  does  object  to  having  a  man 
think  he  can. 

HUGH.  Well,  none  of  them  need  think  he  can 
kiss  you. 

(ELLEN  enters  door  L.  HUGH  gives  her  an  in 
terested  look.  She  crosses  R.  to  table  and  be 
gins  to  sort  out  the  glasses,  etc.,  on  tray,  stand 
ing  behind  table.) 

ANNE.  (Twining  her  arm  on  HUGH'S)  Now 
Hugh,  come  on  upstairs  and  dance  with  Edith 
Burton.  (She  starts  toward  stairway.  He  balks) 
^  HUGH.  No,  I  won't.  It's  a  worthy  charity  but 
I've  suffered  enough  for  the  cause.  (He  looks  at 
ELLEN  again  with  growing  interest,  disengages 
ANNE'S  arm.  and  pats  her  shoulder)  You  run  along 
and  sic'ck  Phil  Benton  on  her.  (She  hangs  back 
but  he  leads  her  to  stairway  and  on  to  landing) 
Phil  will  eat  out  of  your  hand.  (ANNE  seems 
pleased  at  this  and  goes  upstairs)  I'll  be  there  in 
a  few  moments.  (Exit  ANNE  up.  HUGH  looks  at 


COMMON  CLAY  25 

ELLEN,  who  has  arranged  tray  and  picked  it  up. 
Then  he  comes^down  to  her,  smiling.  ELLEN  looks 
confused  as  he  nears  her.) 

HUGH.  (With  a  rather  silly  air)  You're  not 
afraid  of  me,  are  you? 

ELLEN.  (Greatly  surprised  and  puzzled)  Afraid 
of  you?  Not  after  the  way  you've  just  protected 
your  sister.  (Smiles)  Why  should  I  be  afraid  of 
you 

HUGH.  (Behind  table)  Not  even  when  you 
are — (He  bends  nearer  to  her.  She  has  the  tray  in 
her  hand  and  cannot  push  him  off)  under  the 
misletoe?  (He  kisses  her  quickly.  She  does  not 
move  for  a  moment,  dazed.  He  draws  away  from 
her,  smiling  rather  inanely.  She  is  bewildered,  con 
fused  but  at  length  exclaims) 

ELLEN.  Oh — so  you're  just  like  all  the  rest  of 
'em — (Slowly  and  in  a  dazed  absent  minded  way) 
Just  like  all  the  rest  of  'em. 

HUGH.  (Superficially)  Surely.  I'm  made  of 
the  same  stuff  as  other  men,  and  they  all  fall  for 
you.  You're  a  peach. 

ELLEN.  (Still  as  if  dazed)  So  you — you  are 
just  like  Edwards. 

HUGH.     Edwards? 

ELLEN.  Yes — the  butler — and  Coakley — the 
drunk.  (Pauses)  I  didn't  think  it  of  you. 

HUGH.  Well,  what  sort  of  a  boob  do  you  think 
I  am — I  don't  look  a  fellow  who  would  overlook 
anything,  do  I?  Especially  anything  as  pretty  as 
you  are?  (He  starts  toward  her  smiling.  She 
avoids  him,  setting  down  the  tray  on  table  iviih  a 
rattle  and  bang,  and  getting  the  table  between  them 
she  faces  him  zvith  anger) 

ELLEN.  Oh,  you're  a  pretty  one — sending  your 
drunken  friend  home  for  trying  to  kiss  your  sister, 
and  then  you  turn  right  around  and  get  fresh  with 
me.  Well,  you  can't  do  it.  You've  got  to  treat  me 


26  COMMON  CLAY 

just  as  you  treat  those  girls  upstairs.  If  I  had  their 
money  and  their  gowns,  I'd  be  just  as  good  as  they 
are.  Do  you  hear  me,  just  as  good  as  they  are. 
(ELLEN'S  combativeness  and  anger  rile  HUGH  a  bit, 
but  he  calms  himself  to  calm  her) 

HUGH.  Oh,  calm  down  a  bit.  I'm  sorry.  I  was 
hasty.  I  think  you'll  find  that  I  am  a  gentleman. 

ELLEN.  Yes,  that  is  just  what  you  are — a  gentle 
man.  And  to-night  I've  learned  something  about 
gentlemen.  They  will  always  protect  their  own 
women  but  they  prey  on  the  women  of  the  poor. 

HUGH.    I've  never  wronged  a  woman  in  my  life ! 

ELLEN.  (Excitedly)  No,  but  you're  thankful 
for  those  that  have  already  been  wronged. 

HUGH.  Quiet  down  a  bit  and  let  me  explain.  I 
didn't  mean  any  harm. 

ELLEN.  Maybe  you  didn't  and  maybe  you  did. 
Maybe  Coakley  didn't  mean  any  harm  to  Anne 
Fullerton.  And  maybe  he  did.  (He  begins  to  get 
angry.  Her  eyes  flash  and  she  raps  the  table  quietly 
to  emphasize  her  words  and  speaks  in  low  tense 
tones  as  if  to  goad  him  into  something  like  her  own 
anger)  But  I  know  that  in  both  your  heads  there 
was  the  same  thought. 

HUGH.  (Glares  at  her  a  moment)  Don't  you 
dare  mention  Miss  Anne  in  that  way.  (Lowering 
his  voice  for  emphasis)  And  as  for  you — I  know 
all  about  you. 

ELLEN.  What  do  you  mean  ?  (She  looks  at  him 
inquiringly  and  he  looks  knowingly  at  her)  You 
don't  know  anything  about  me.  (She  begins  to 
realise  that  he  does)  Who's  been  talking  to  you? 
(Then  with  realization  she  cries  out)  Artie 
Coakley?  (She  looks  at  him  for  confirmation  but 
he  gives  no  intimation)  What  did  he  say  about 
me?  Was  it  Coakley?  (He  nods)  Mr.  Hugh, 
you're  not  going  to  tell,  are  you  ? 

HUGH.     (Smiling  at  his  advantage)     No,  what 


COMMON  CLAY  27 

would  be  the  sense  in  my  bothering  you  or  in  your 
bothering  me —  If  we're  going  to  be  under  the 
same  roof,  we  may  as  well  be  friends.  Don't  worry. 
(He  gives  her  a  reassuring  pat  on  the  shoulder. 
From  above  door  is  heard  to  open  and  the  strains  of 
"Home  Sweet  Home"  waltz  float  down.  A 
shadow  as  of  a  woman  coming  downstairs  appears 
on  wall.  They  hear,  and  he  motions  her  away  with 
another  reassuring  tap  on  the  back.  MRS.  FULLER- 
TON  appears  on  stairway  and  comes  dozvn  to  land 
ing,  unsuspicious  from  what  she  sees,  of  anything 
passing  between  HUGH  and  ELLEN) 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  Hugh,  dear,  I've  been  looking 
everywhere  for  you.  They  are  all  leaving,  now. 

HUGH.  Coming,  Mother.  (He  joins  her  on 
landing) 


("  Home  Siveet  Home  "  dies  down  in  ball-room  and 
the  guests  dressed  for  street  come  downstairs. 
There  is  a  great  deal  of  laughter  as  the  guests 
file  by  MRS.  FULLERTON,  ANNE,  HUGH,  and 
MR.  FULLERTON,  who  stand  in  line  saying  good 
night,  ad  lib,  "  Thank  you  for  a  perfectly 
charming  evening ",  "  The  best  dance  of  the 
season",  etc.  The  FULLERTONS  thank  their 
guests  for  liking  it,  while  off-stage  out-doors, 
is  a  bedlam  of  chugging  automobiles,  and 
through  the  library  windows  the  flash  of  head 
lamps  from  the  street.  Outside  the  policeman's 
voice  can  be  heard  calling,  "  Mrs.  Carter's  car." 
"Mrs.  Semple's."  "Mr.  James  Scott's  ma 
chine."  "  Mr.  Van  Dyck's  carriage."  "  Cab 
for  Mr.  Sinton"  "  Cab  for  Miss  Overton." 
"  Taxi."  One  or  two  of  the  male  guests  take  a 
drink.  ELLEN  and  EDWARDS  are  dashing  about 
in  hallway  holding  coats  and  zvraps  for  guests. 
After  guests  all  exit  right  and  everything  is 


2%  COMMON  CLAY 

quiet,  and  the  servants  exit  L.,  MRS.  FULLERTON 
comes  down  L.  of  table.) 

MRS.  FULLERTON.  Well,  I  think  everything  went 
off  beautifully. 

FULLERTON.  Your  parties  are  always  successful, 
dear. 

HUGH.  Indeed  they  are,  Mother.  (He  puts  his 
arm  around  his  mother  and  kisses  her)  Good-night. 

MRS.  FULLERTON.     Good-night,  my  boy. 

ANNE.  Good-night,  Hugh.  (She  kisses  her 
father,  who  pats  her)  And  good-night,  Dad. 

FULLERTON.  Good-night,  good-night.  (The  two 
women  go  up  and  off  and  FULLERTON  turns  to 
HUGH)  Well,  Hugh,  a  very  pleasant  evening.  The 
mother  and  Anne  are  retiring,  and  I'll  follow. 
(Reaches  landing) 

HUGH.  I  think  I'll  sit  awhile  and  smoke  a  cigar 
ette,  Dad. 

FULLERTON.    A  little  late,  my  son. 

HUGH.    I'll  be  up  presently. 

FULLERTON.  (Stops,  turns)  When  do  you  go 
back  to  college? 

HUGH.  To-morrow  evening — my  train  leaves  at 
six-thirty. 

FULLERTON.  Ah,  so  soon.  W^ell,  you'll  need 
money. 

HUGH.  No — no — oh,  no — (They  both  laugh. 
FULLERTON  conies  doivn  to  HUGH) 

FULLERTON.  Come  to  the  office  at  one  to-morrow 
and  we'll  fix  you  up. 

HUGH.  Father,  you  haven't  any  small  change 
about  you  now,  have  you? 

FULLERTON.  (Laughing)  And  then  we'll  lunch 
together  at  the  City  Club. 

HUGH.  Thank  you,  sir,  I'll  be  there — at  one 
o'clock. 

FULLERTON.    At  lunch  I  want  you  to  get  better 


COMMON  CLAY  29 

acquainted  with  the  older  men — the  substantial 
business  men — for  you  must  bear  in  mind,  that  as 
soon  as  you  get  back  next  fall  from  your  yachting 
trip,  you  must  take  up  the  management  of  the  estate. 
Good-night.  (Pats  HUGH  on  back) 
HUGH.  Good-night,  Dad. 

(FULLERTON  exits  upstairs  and  his  footsteps  are 
heard  off-stage.    HUGH  lights  a  cigarette.) 

ANNE.  (Off-stage)  Ellen,  Ellen!  (ELLEN 
enters  from  hall  and  starts  up  stairs.  As  HUGH, 
hearing  her  coming  turns  off  lights  in  library) 
Ellen,  please  bring  my  breakfast  to  my  room  at 
eleven. 

ELLEN.  (Peeved,  remembering  COAKLEY'S  re 
mark)  Yes,  ma'am.  (ELLEN  comes  downstairs 
and  turns  out  lights  in  hall.  HUGH  goes  to  door  L. 
and  stands.  Room  is  now  lighted  by  lamp  and  fire- 
glow.  ELLEN  pulls  down  curtain  of  window  R., 
straightens  chair,  picks  up  tray  and  starts  L.  HUGH 
comes  toivard  her.  She  is  surprised) 

HUGH.  (Hesitatingly)  Ellen,  if  you  don't  un 
derstand  how  to  go  about  getting  Miss  Anne's 
breakfast,  ask  Edwards  to  tell  you. 

ELLEN.  Yes,  sir.  (Starts  to  pass  HUGH.  He 
blocks  her,  playing  for  time) 

HUGH.  And  if  he's  uncivil  in  the  morning,  let 
me  know.  (ELLEN  looks  at  HUGH  in  frank  sur 
prise,  and  he  by  way  of  explanation  continues 
hesitatingly)  You  see,  I  know  Edwards.  He  is 
very  servile  to  those  above  him,  but  he  is  often  dis 
courteous  to  those  over  whom  he  is  placed.  (He 
catches  himself,  realizing  suddenly  that  he  is  prob 
ably  guilty  of  the  offense  of  which  he  accuses  the 
Butler)  But  I  don't  want  you  to  think  that  I'm 
that  way.  I'm  sorry  for  what  happened  this  even 
ing — since  I've  had  time  to  think  it  over — and  I 


3o  COMMON  CLAY 

want  to  show  you  that  I  will  treat  you  with  the 
same  respect  that  I'd  show  to  anyone  else.  (He 
sits) 

ELLEN.    You  can't  do  it,  Mr.  Hugh. 

HUGH.    Why  not? 

ELLEN.    Because  I've  become  a  servant. 

.HUGH.  Why — err — one  may  have  respect  for  a 
servant. 

ELLEN.  No,  sir,  because  respect  is  not  some 
thing  you  can  hand  out  like  a  sack  of  potatoes.  You 
can't  give  it,  you  can  only  show  it — by  not  making 
a  servant  address  you  so  as  to  show  that  she's  not 
as  good  as  you  are — and  by  not  sitting  down  when 
you  make  her  stand 

HUGH.  (Jumps  up,  stands  uncomfortably,  fidgets 
and  then  flops  doivn  again,  perplexed)  Oh,  I  say, 
Ellen,  that's  all  quite  impossible. 

ELLEN.  Of  course  it  is — I  don't  blame  you.  But 
I've  just  learned  an  awful  truth  to-night.  I've 
learned  that  a  woman  of  the  streets  can  get  about  as 
much  respect  as  a  woman  who  makes  her  living  in 
jobs  like  this  one  of  mine.  It's  not  so  much  what 
you  do  as  how  much  you  make  by  doing  it  that  gives 
you  power  in  this  world. 

HUGH.     (With  inspiration)     Do  you  mean  that? 

ELLEN.     I  can't  get  away  from  it. 

HUGH.     It  does  sound  reasonable.    You're  wise. 

ELLEN.  Experience  is  the  best  teacher.  (Crosses 
left) 

HUGH.  Wait  a  minute — hold  on — I've  a  lot  more 
to  say  to  you.  (Rises  and  takes  tray  from  her. 
The  fire-glow  lights  their  features  strongly)  Do 
you  know  I  like  you.  You  interest  me  and  you  are 
beautiful.  And  I  have  a  feeling  that  you  like  me. 
Don't  you?  (He  takes  her  hand,  she  hangs  her 
head  and  withdraws  hand) 

ELLEN.    What  makes  you  think  that  ? 

HUGH.     Oh,  I  don't  think  it— I  just  feel  it.     I 


COMMON  CLAY  31 

felt  it  when  you  became  so  angry  at  me,  and  then 
subsided  in  timeJ:o  keep  my  mother  from  seeing  us 
together.  You  do — like  me,  don't  you? 

ELLEN.    I  suppose  so. 

HUGH.    Why? 

ELLEN.  Does  any  girl  know  why  she  likes  a  man? 
I've  seen  them  fall  for  some  awful  pills. 

HUGH.     (Starting)     But  I'm  not  that ! 

ELLEN.  I  can't  say  just  why  I  took  a  fancy  to 
you.  I've  always  fancied  you.  I've  often  wished 
that  I  could  have  had  a  chance  to  know  you  as  those 
girls  who  were  at  your  party  know  you.  To  meet 
you  in  that  way.  That's  why  I  thought  about  them 
when  I  was  angry. 

HUGH.  (Surprised)  But  you  never  did  know  of 
me — until  now. 

ELLEN.  Yes,  I've  seen  you  driving  around  town 
in  your  car  and  I've  read  about  you  playing  foot 
ball,  and  seen  your  pictures  in  the  papers — and  your 
sister's  name  and  yours  are  always  in  the  society 
column. 

HUGH.    You  keep  up  with  things,  eh? 

ELLEN.  (Enthusiastically)  Surely.  I've  often 
read  about  the  parties  and  what  girls  were  there  and 
what  they  wore,  and  then  I  would  just  imagine  that 
I  was  there  and  I've  talked  to  them  all  until  it 
seemed  real.  I  almost  called  your  sister  "  Anne  " 
right  to  her  face  to-night  and  you — you  have  always 
been  a  sort  of  hero  of  mine. 

HUGH.    (Pleased)    You  have  a  great  imagination. 

ELLEN.  (Simply)  I'm  not  trying  to  jolly  you — 
I  know  it  wouldn't  do  me  any  good.  I'm  just  trying 
to  explain  how  it  is  that  I  can  like  you,  even  when 
I'm  nothing  to  you.  It  puzzles  me.  Maybe  it's 
because  I  realize  how  little  I  count  for  and  how 
much  you  count  for  in  this  city.  Maybe  it's  be 
cause  you're  so  manly  looking  and  handsome  and  big 
and  strong.  And  it's  funny,  too — as  big  and  strong 


32  COMMON  CLAY, 

and  as  able  to  take  care  of  yourself  as  you  are,  there 
are  so  many  persons  and  so  many  things  helping  to 
take  care  of  you.  This  nice,  warm  house  is  one  of 
the  things  that  shelter  you.  This  is  the  first  time  I 
ever  was  in  a  place  like  this.  Now  I  know  what  they 
mean  by  saying  that  there  is  no  place  like  home. 
(With  an  amused  bitterness,  suddenly)  Where  do 
you  suppose  I  was  a  week  ago  to-night? 

HUGH.    I  don't  know.    Where? 

ELLEN.     In  jail? 

HUGH.     In  jail?  How  did  you  get  there? 

ELLEN.  It's  easy  enough  when  you  know  how. 
Do  you  know  Bender's  Dance  Hall,  the  Elysian  ? 

HUGH.  Well,  rather.  It  was  raided  by  the  police 
a  few  nights  ago  while  I  was  on  my  way  there  with 
a  bunch  of  fellows.  It  was  lucky  we  didn't  get  there 
earlier. 

ELLEN.  It  wouldn't  have  made  any  difference 
with  you.  They  let  all  the  men  go — they  always  do. 
But  they  backed  up  a  patrol  wagon  and  took  all 
the  girls  to  the  station — and  locked  us  up.  I  nearly 
died  I  was  so  frightened.  I  couldn't  sleep  all  night 
— not  a  wink.  And  while  I  sat  up  there  in  a  cell,  a 
white  patch  of  moonlight  came  through  the  bars  of 
the  window  onto  the  floor,  and  a  rat  came  out  in  the 
moonlight  and  stood  on  its  haunches  and  looked  at 
me  with  its  little  beady  eyes,  and  shook  its  awful 
little  whiskers  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Well,  my  goil, 
welcome  to  the  dump — for  we're  both  on  the  dump, 
you  know — we're  trash,  both  of  us,  nothing  but 
trash — and  we've  been  swept  out  onto  the  dump 
when  the  house-cleaning  came."  And  in  the  morn 
ing  they  jerked  me  up  in  Police  Court  and  the  Judge 
told  me  that  as  this  was  the  first  appearance  for  me, 
I  could  go.  He  was  a  kind  man — (Lowering  her 
voice}  for  a  judge.  He  asked  me  to  wait  in  his 
office,  and  when  court  was  over  he  talked  with  me, 
asked  me  about  my  father  and  mother,  and  said 


COMMON  CLAY  33 

he'd  help  me  to  get  away  from  bad  company.  He 
called  up  on  the,  'phone  and  sent  me  to  a  woman 
who  gets  jobs  for  girls.  Told  her  she  just  must 
help  me.  I  went  to  her  office  and  Edwards  came 
there,  looked  a  lot  of  us  over,  and  said  he'd  take  a 
chance  on  me  because  Mrs.  Fullerton  wanted  a 
housemaid  who  had  some  style  to  her. 

HUGH.     Edwards  has  a  good  eye. 

ELLEN.  Anyway,  I  got  the  job.  I  didn't  want  to 
be  a  housemaid,  but  I  remembered  what  the  Judge 
told  me  about  getting  away  from  bad  company,  and 
I  knew  you  were  good  people — the  Fullertons.  So 
here  I  am — in  good  company — in  one  of  our  best 
homes.  (Looks  at  HUGH  significantly.  He  seems 
confused  and  at  a  loss) 

HUGH.  (After  a  pause)  If  you  think  in  that 
way,  you'll  become  hard  and  bitter.  (With  inspira 
tion)  God  made  us  what  we  are. 

ELLEN.  (Slowly)  People  like  you  blame  a  lot  of 
things  on  God.  (HUGH  looks  at  her  puzzled.  ELLEN 
continues,  slowly  and  meditatively,  and  HUGH  moves 
nearer,  cautiously  trying  to  get  his  arm  around  her) 
Well,  I  don't  know  who  to  blame  it  on,  but  I  do 
know  that  when  I  came  here  to-night  to  work  and  be 
right,  I  didn't  get  any  more  respect  than  when  I 
was  going  it  wrong.  It's  more  who  we  are  than 
what  we  do  that  makes  us  good  people  or  bad 
people.  (She  leans  forward  with  her  chin  in  her 
hand  and  her  elbows  on  her  knees  looking  into  the 
fire-glow.  Her  voice  grows  lower  but  more  tense 
and  perfectly  distinct  as  she  gives  a  sigh  of  weari 
ness)  All  I've  got  to  say  is  "  What's  the  use  ?  " • 

(He  throws  cigarette  in  the  fire  and  draws  her  to 
him  closer  and  regards  her  quizzically  and  un- 
comprehendingly  as 

The  curtain  falls 


34  COMMON  CLAY 


ACT  II 

SCENE:  The  following  October — a  bright  morning. 
The  scene  is  laid  in  the  private  office  of 
SAMUEL  FILSON,  attorney  at  law.  There  are 
entrances  right  and  left.  Door  stage  left  is 
marked  "Mr.  Filson,  Private",  the  letters  be 
ing  painted  on  off-stage  side  of  the  whitened 
glass.  Door  stage  right  is  marked  "  Library  ", 
letters  on  stage  side.  There  are  pictures  on  the 
walls  of  Blackstone,  and  other  legal  celebrities, 
a  framed  copy  of  Magna  Charta,  the  Declara 
tion  of  Independence,  and  a  photograph  of  the 
Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States.  There  is 
a  large  table-desk  in  center  and  a  revolving 
chair  behind  same  placed  so  that  JUDGE  FILSON 
faces  the  audience.  On  this  table  is  a  telephone 
and  numerous  papers,  law  books,  documents, 
writing  material,  a  large  ivory  paper-cutter,  etc. 
In  one  corner  of  room  a  golfer's  bag  and  clubs 
stands  against  walls.  There  are  several  chairs 
and  a  hat-and-coat  stand,  up  from  left  door. 
The  furnishings,  etc.,  are  such  as  to  indicate  a 
very  orderly  and  prosperous  law  office  and  the 
quiet  good  taste  of  its  occupant. 

There  is  a  very  large  window  in  three  frames, 
taking  up  most  of  the  rear  wall,  through  which 
can  be  seen  the  tops  of  houses,  trees  ivith  scant 
autumn- colored  foliage,  skyscrapers,  spires, 
etc.,  typical  of  the  birdseye  landscape  of  a 
middle  western  American  city  of  the  first  class. 
The  morning  sunshine  is  evident.  But  most 
conspicuous  in  the  out-of-doors  through  this 
window  there  appears  a  broad  winding  river,  on 
the  banks  of  which  the  city  is  built.  This  river. 
dominates  the  view.  Bridge  in  distance. 


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LEFT 


COMMON  CLAY  35 

AT  RISE  :  JUDGE  FILSON,  a  well-dressed,  impressive 
man  well  along  in  his  fifties,  is  seated  at  his 
desk  consulting  law  books  and  making  notes. 
He  seems  to  enjoy  his  zvork,  taking  it  easily,  as 
a  finished  scholar  and  gentleman  who  has  ac 
quired  the  habit  of  winning  his  cases  at  law 
and  of  exercising  a  quiet,  unobtrusive,  half- 
jesting  authority  in  his  relations  with  his  fellow- 
man.  His  face  and  the  play  of  his  features 
show  the  capacity  for  every  phase  of  human 
emotion.  He  is  as  a  man  who  has  lived  much 
and  learned  as  he  lived.  His  voice  is  low  and 
clear  and  full — rounded  and  controlled  by  years 
of  public  speaking. 

As  FILSON  is  engaged  at  his  work,  Miss 
WARREN,  the  stenographer,  opens  the  door  left. 
FILSON  is  preoccupied  until  she  speaks  with  her 
hand  on  the  knob  of  the  door. 

Miss  WARREN.    Mr.  Fullerton  is  here,  sir. 

FILSON.  So  soon — show  him  right  in.  (FULLER- 
TON  brushes  by  Miss  WARREN,  who  exits,  closing 
door.  FULLERTON  is  greatly  concerned  and  troubled 
in  his  manner  and  expression)  Aha,  Dickey  boy, 
a  great  day  this — (Noticing  FULLERTON'S  expres 
sion  his  own  changes  to  one  of  puzzlement)  Why 
Dick,  what's  the  matter? 

FULLERTON.    It's  my  boy — my  Hugh. 

FILSON.     (Concerned)     What  ails  him? 

FULLERTON.  (Tensely)  He's  mixed  up  with  a 
woman. 

FILSON.  A  woman  eh?  Well  I  wouldn't  be  too 
hard  on  the  boy,  Dick.  Any  young  fellow's  likely 
to  have  his  fling — you  did — I  did — 

FULLERTON.  (Impatiently)  Hard  on  him — 
Certainly  not !  You've  got  to  help  us  out,  Sam. 

FILSON.  You  know  Fl  do  that,  Dick.  Is  it  any 
thing  very  serious? 


36  COMMON  CLAY 

FULLERTON.  (Nodding  assent)  The  woman 
claims  he's  the  father  of  her  child. 

FILSON.  U'um— ugly.  (Hesitatingly)  Any— 
eer — truth  in  it? 

FULLERTON.  Truth  in  it — of  course  not.  The 
girl  was  simply  a  servant  in  our  house. 

FILSON.  (Almost  amused)  It's  a  physical 
possibility. 

FULLERTON.  But  this  is  blackmail — pure  black 
mail.  (Excitedly)  Just  a  frame-up  on  us  because 
we  have  money — can't  you  see? 

FILSON.     Does  she  ask  for  money? 

FULLERTON.  (Pacing  excitedly)  I  have  not  seen 
her — neither  has  Hugh.  He's  just  come  home  from 
abroad.  She's  been  trying  to  get  to  see  him  but 
I  don't  want  the  boy  bothered — it  won't  do — it  can't 
be — a  splendid  young  fellow  like  Hugh — just 
graduated  from  college  last  June  with  honors — 
made  all  sorts  of  friends  there  too — influential 
wealthy  people — now  when  he  comes  home  to  settle 
down  and  manage  the  estate  here  comes  along  this 
little  hussy  to  blackmail  him — to  put  a  blot  on  our 
family  name.  There  ought  to  be  a  law  to  protect 
the  sons  of  gentlemen  from  such  scum 

FILSON.  And  perhaps  there  should  be  a  law  to 
protect  such  scum  from  the  sons  of  gentlemen. 
(Pause)  Yes,  yes,  it's  too  bad  Dick,  but  for  good 
ness  sake  calm  down  and  tell  me  the  story.  I'll  have 
to  know  it  accurately. 

FULLERTON.  (Seats  himself  left  of  desk)  Well, 
when  Hugh  was  home  from  college  on  his  vacation 
last  Christmas  this  girl  came  to  our  house  to  work. 
She  was  pretty  and  young — they  say — I  don't  re 
member  her  and  I  doubt  if  Hugh  would  know  her 
if  he  saw  her — and  well  Sam  it's  just  the  old  story 
of  a  healthy  active  young  fellow  sowing  his  wild 
oats  and  falling  into  a  trap. 


COMMON  CLAY  37 

FILSON.  (c.)  Hugh  admits  his  relations  with 
her,  then? 

FULLERTON.  *  Well — ear— ryes — but  you  can't 
blame  the  boy.  Under  the  circumstances  it  was  a 
perfectly  natural  thing  for  him  to  do. 

FILSON.  Yes  and  under  the  circumstances  it  was 
a  perfectly  natural  thing  for  the  girl  to  become  a 
mother.  (  FILSON  notes  a  disapproving  look  on 
FULLERTON'S  face  and  he  hastens  to  explain)  You 
see,  Dick,  we've  got  to  look  at  this  thing  from  all 
its  angles.  But  what  does  she  claim  and  what  does 
she  want? 

FULLERTON.  She  has  been  making  persistent  de 
mands  to  see  Hugh — I  wouldn't  let  him  see  her,  and 
now  she's  gone  to  a  lawyer.  He  called  me  up  just 
now  and  said  if  I  didn't  see  him  to-day  there  would 
be  trouble.  I've  referred  him  to  you.  And  I  think 
he'll  be  here  with  the  girl  in  a  few  minutes.  You 
must  settle  with  him,  Sam.  Do  you  hear.  This 
thing  must  be  hushed  up. 

FILSON.    You  think  they'll  want  money? 

FULLERTON.    What  else  could  they  want? 

FILSON.    Who's  her  lawyer? 

FULLERTON.  His  name  is  Yates — I  don't  know 
him. 

FILSON.  I  do — (Significantly)  they'll  take  the 
money. 

FULLERTON.  We'll  have  to  give  them  what  they 
ask  for  I  suppose  to  keep  the  thing  hushed  up — but 
it  is  an  outrage,  isn't  it? 

FILSON.  I  suppose  so,  Dick,  but  it's  a  thing  that's 
likely  to  happen  as  long  as  what  woman  is  taught 
to  look  on  as  her  highest  duty  is  looked  on  by  man 
as  his  most  popular  form  of  amusement.  (Rises, 
walks  to  window,  stands  sidewise  to  audience,  finger 
ing  cord  on  window  shade  and  dreamily  looking  out 
at  the  river) 

FULLERTON.     (Gasping)     What!     What's  that! 


38  COMMON  CLAY 

(Pauses  and  grows  calmer)  You  ought  to  ap 
preciate  what  this  means  to  me,  Sam,  not  only  as 
my  lawyer,  but  as  my  friend.  (Turns,  looks  at 
FILSON)  What  are  you  dreaming  of,  Sam? 

FILSON.  I'm  wondering,  Dick — (Pauses)  I'm 
wondering  if  I  can  as  your  friend,  and  not  as  your 
lawyer,  make  a  suggestion  to  you. 

FULLERTON.     Certainly  Sam. 

FILSON.  If  Hugh  really  is  the  father  of  her 
child  why  don't  you  have  him  marry  her. 

FULLERTON.  (Jumping  up  and  pacing  the  room) 
What?  my  boy  marry  that  woman — who  came  off 
the  streets  into  our  house  as  a  servant.  Sam,  you're 
mad. 

FILSON.  Wait  a  bit,  Dick.  (Comes  down  and 
the  tzvo  stand  by  desk)  If  you  won't  let  Hugh 
make  his  child  legitimate  then  you  prove  that  what 
you  call  morality  is  not  as  important  as  certain 
social  distinctions. 

FULLERTON.  I  never  heard  such  wild  talk  in  my 
life. 

FILSON.  The  truth  is  often  wild  when  spoken  at 
the  critical  moment — (Sits  in  his  desk  chair,  picks 
up  paper-cutter  and  points  at  FULLERTON  for 
emphasis)  Dick,  there  are  only  tzvo  real  problems 
in  human  life — the  problem  of  sex  and  the  problem 
of  property — by  the  one  we  come  into  existence,  by 
the  other  we  exist — yet  to  attempt  to  deal  with 
either  in  a  way  that  really  counts  is  to  be  considered 
indecent  or  dangerous.  (Pauses)  Now  it  occurs  to 
me  that  here  is  a  chance  to  do  a  big  thing — the 
biggest  thing  that  any  man  can  do — to  sacrifice 
what  we  call  respectability  to  what  we  know  is 
justice — (Pauses,  looking  into  the  eyes  of  FULLER- 
TON,  who  seems  dumfounded)  Do  you  under 
stand  ? 

FULLERTON.     (Seating  himself  left,  and  speaking 


COMMON  CLAY  39 

in  charitable  contempt)  Can't  say  that  I  do.  I 
always  thought  that  you  were  a  sensible  man,  Sam. 

FILSON.  You  wrong  me  there,  Dick.  As  a  mat 
ter  of  fact,  I'm* not  nearly  so  sensible  and  sane  a 
man  as  people  think.  I  now  and  then  have  ideas — 
just  as  the  other  fools  do — but  I've  generally  been 
able  to  stifle  these  ideas  before  they  brought  me  to 
harm — and  once  I  was  saved  from  one  of  these 
mad  notions  by  the  self-sacrifice  of  a  woman — (He 
lowers  his  voice)  I  expect  that's  why  I  happened 
to  make  this  foolish  suggestion — She  was  just 
such  a  woman  as  the  one  in  this  case,  perhaps.  Go 
back  to  your  innocent  youthful  days,  Dick — you 
may  remember  her — they  called  her  Dolly  Montrose. 
( FILSON  eyes  FULLERTON  closely) 

FULLERTON.    That  woman — she 

FILSON.     Oh,  you  do  remember? 

FULLERTON.  Yes,  eer — vaguely — she  sang  in  a 
dance-hall. 

FILSON.  (Nodding)  Where  we  spent  many  in 
nocent  youthful  hours — ah,  happy  days! 

FULLERTON.  Oh,  hang  it,  Sam,  don't  throw  my 
wild  oats  into  my  face  at  a  time  like  this.  (Pauses) 
But  I  remember  that  woman — rather  vivid  type — 
full  of  life 

FILSON.    Do  you  remember  her  end  ? 

FULLERTON.  Can't  say  that  I  do — I've  forgotten 
all  the  shady  things,  Sam.  When  I  married  I  closed 
the  book. 

FILSON.     She  killed  herself. 

FULLERTON.  Yes?  Women  of  that  kind  often 
do,  don't  they?  It's  one  way  of  solving  their 
problem 

FILSON.  She  drowned  herself — Dick — on  ac 
count  of  me. 

FULLERTON.     What's  that? 

FILSON.  Dick,  there's  something  in  my  life  that's 
been  hushed  up — just  as  you  want  this  matter 


40  COMMON  CLAY 

hushed  up  for  your  son — and  it  was  the  woman 
who  hushed  it  up  for  me.  It  cost  her  life  to  do 
it  but  she  did  it  so  well  that  to-day  I  am  the  only 
living  soul  who  knows  my  secret.  And  I'm  going 
to  tell  it  to  you. 

FULLERTON.     You  may  trust  me,  Sam. 

FILSON.  Do  you  remember  what  I  was  doing 
twenty  years  ago? 

FULLERTON.  (Thinking)  Why  you  were  mak 
ing  your  race  for  Congress. 

FILSON.  Yes,  and  before  that — a  long  time  be 
fore  that — I  had  met  this  woman,  Dolly  Montrose. 
I  have  one  thing  in  my  nature,  Dick,  which  is  a  great 
hindrance  to  any  man  who  wants  to  get  along  in 
this  world. 

FULLERTON.     Hindrance — what? 

FILSON.  A  great  feeling  of  pity.  (FULLERTON 
looks  for  an  explanation)  You  may  call  it  that  or 
you  may  call  it  a  sense  of  justice  or  too  much 
sympathy,  but  these  are  things  that  go  together  and 
things  that  a  man  must  get  rid  of  if  he'd  go  to  the 
top.  They  made  it  easy  for  me  to  fall  in  love  with 
a  woman  that  other  men  took  for  a  plaything. 

FULLERTON.  Nonsense,  Sam.  You're  talking 
wildly  again.  A  man  can  have  no  real  attachment 
for  such  a  woman. 

FILSON.  A  man  like  you  can't — you're  too 
civilized.  But  I  could  and  did,  find  real  congeniality 
in  this  woman.  For  where  a  man  like  you  would 
see  her  lack  of  education  I  could  see  that  she  had 
great  natural  abilities  and  talents.  Where  others 
noted  that  she  spoke  ungrammatically  I  could  see 
that  she  said  things  worth  listening  to.  And  she 
sang — (Grows  more  enthusiastic)  Don't  you  re 
member  how  she  sang  in  Lynch's  dance-hall  ? 

FULLERTON.  (Smiling  cynically)  Yes,  such 
songs  as  "When  the  roses  sing  in  Western  Penn- 


COMMON  CLAY  41 

sylvania  and  the  robins  bloom  in  Central  Tenn 
essee  " 

FILSON.  Ah,  l#it  she  had  a  real  voice — a  natural 
voice  full  of  melody  and  sweetness  and  sympathy. 
There  was  a  thrill  to  it.  And  the  sympathy  that 
was  in  her  voice  was  in  her  nature.  And  there  was 
/0V  about  her  too.  Few  persons  are  capable  of  real 
enjoyment  even  if  the  chance  of  it  comes  their  way 
but  here  was  one  who  radiated  joy  where  the  op 
portunities  for  it  were  practically  denied  her ;  who 
bristled  with  talent  and  had  no  chance  to  develop  it. 
One  caught  the  spirit  of  her  gayety — it  was  irresis 
tible  even  when  you  knew  how  tragic  was  her  life, 
and  the  hopelessness  of  it  all  appealed  to  my  sense 
of  pity.  I  may  have  been  a  fool — but  I  fell  for 
her,  I  found  that  I  would  rather  be  with  her  than 
with  anyone  else  in  the  world  and  as  time  went  on, 
and  you  and  all  the  rest  of  our  friends  married  and 
settled  down  to  lead  the  lives  of  the  pure  in  heart — 
(FULLERTON  winces)  I  found  that  I  simply  couldn't 
give  this  woman  up.  I  saw  her  constantly  for 
several  years.  She  gave  up  everything  and  every 
one  for  me 

FULLERTON.  And  none  of  us  ever  knew  anything 
of  the  life  you  were  leading. 

FILSON.  It  would  seem  not — and  I  drifted  along 
with  her  until  one  day  just  before  the  Congressional 
election,  when  I  was  making  the  big  fight  of  my 
life,  she  told  me  that  she  was  about  to  become  a 
mother 

FULLERTON.  My  God?  how  did  you  keep  it  all  so 
quiet  ? 

FILSON.    She  was  the  one  who  kept  it  quiet. 

FULLERTON.    How  did  you  get  her  to  do  it  ? 

FILSON.  I  didn't  think  of  that — I  asked  her  to 
marry  me.  (FULLERTON  looks  at  FILSON  incredu 
lously)  And  she  refused. 

FULLERTON.    Refused ! 


42  COMMON  CLAY 

FILSON.  (Nodding)  Yes, — said  she'd  be  wreck 
ing  my  life.  She  was  a  real  woman.  I  helped  to 
make  her  so,  thank  God,  by  treating  her  as  such, 
and  when  it  came  to  the  supreme  moment  she  did 
what  women  do  so  well — she  sacrificed  herself. 
(FILSON  pauses  a  moment  and  the  two  men  look 
each  at  the  other) 

FULLERTON.    But  what  became  of  the  child? 

FILSON.  (Slowly  and  distinctly)  The  child  was 
never  born  (Pauses)  for  before  that  could  happen 
the  body  of  Dolly  Montrose  was  found  floating  in 
the  river  below  the  city.  (He  takes  from  his  inner 
vest  pocket  a  leather  case  and  from  that  a  letter 
folded  and  creased)  She  mailed  me  this  note  be 
fore  she  drowned  herself.  (He  reads  aloud — his 
voice  and  hand  trembling) 

"  When  you  get  this  note,  Sam,  I'll  be  dead.  I 
won't  pull  you  down  with  me,  and  I  hope  you  will 
take  the  chance  I  am  giving  you  to  go  on  up.  Now 
don't  act  like  a  fool  and  give  the  thing  away  for  it 
will  be  too  late  to  do  me  any  good.  I  want  to  repay 
you  for  wanting  to  be  straight  with  me  and  this  is 
the  best  way  I  know  how.  Good-bye, 

DOLLY  MONTROSE. 
P.  S.    I  want  you  to  go  to  the  top." 

( FULLERTON  takes  the  note  from  him,  looks  at  it, 
then  shakes  his  head  and  speaks  reflectively  in 
a  low  tone,  deeply  moved.) 

FULLERTON.  It's  a  queer  world.  (He  hands  the 
note  back  to  FILSON,  who  puts  it  -into  the  leather 
case  and  back  into  the  pocket  whence  he  took  it) 

FILSON.  And  I  doubt  if  we  can  draw  the  line 
very  sharply  between  the  good  ones  and  the  bad 
ones  in  it.  (  FILSON  rises  and  walks  to  window 


COMMON  CLAY  43 

looking  out  at  river.  FULLERTON  turns  his  head  to 
ward  FILSON  and  speaks  argument  atively) 

FULLERTON.  *Well,  you  took  advantage  of  the 
chance  the  woman  gave  you — and  went  to  Congress, 
then  became  Chief  Justice  of  this  State,  and  are 
now  its  leading  lawyer.  Where  would  you  have 
been  if  you  had  married  that  woman  in  the  case — as 
you  want  my  boy  to  do  ? 

FILSON.  (Thoughtfully)  Instead  of  being  here 
— the  prosperous  hired  man  of  the  right  kind  of 
people  I'd  probably  be  out  there  in  the  street  of 
evenings  mounted  on  a  soap-box,  shrieking  anathema 
at  the  things  and  the  powers  that  be — but  there 
might  have  been  an  embittered  satisfaction  in  hav 
ing  lost  all  in  attempting  to  right  a  social  wrong 
to  take  the  place  of  the  well-being  which  came  with 
hiding  it.  Dick,  it  seemed  to  me  after  that  incident 
in  my  life  that  success  came  by  evading  issues 
rather  than  by  facing  them — 

FULLERTON.  Nonsense.  You've  been  a  fighter, 
Sam,  for  decency,  for  respectability,  and  law  and 
order. 

FILSON.  (Smiling  sardonically,  and  walking 
about  the  room  making  gestures  as  he  speaks)  Yes, 
Dickey-boy,  I've  always  fought  for  the  things  that 
no  man  can  lose  by  supporting — law  and  order, 
decency  and  respectability,  and  all  such  vague  gen 
eralities  as  stir  the  spirits  of  school-boys  and  keep 
men  from  thinking.  (Pauses  and  bows  to  FULL 
ERTON)  But  I  shall  come  back  to  earth.  (Seats 
himself  at  desk)  Now  I  am  ready,  as  a  lawyer 
should  ever  be,  to  do  the  work  we're  here  for. 
(FILSON  wipes  his  brow)  Let's  get  down  to  busi 
ness — he  who  bolsters  up  his  case  is  able  to  make 
the  best  settlement. 

FULLERTON.  (Rising)  Good — I've  always  felt 
that  I  could  depend  on  you  at  the  show-down,  Sam. 


44  COMMON  CLAY 

Now  Hugh  is  outside  with  a  friend  of  his — who 
knows  something  of  this  girl's  past. 

FILSON.  Good — there's  nothing  that  gets  more 
attention  in  Court  than  a  woman's  past. 

FULLERTON.  But  I  caution  you,  Sam,  under  no 
circumstances  does  this  get  into  court.  We  want  to 
settle  right  here. 

FILSON.     (Nodding)     I  understand. 

FULLERTON.  And,  Sam,  don't  put  on  a  long  face 
with  my  boy — to  make  him  think  he's  a  criminal. 

FILSON.  I  understand.  I'll  simply  treat  the 
matter  lightly — one  of  my  professional  touches, 
Dick — making  little  over  much  and  much  over  little. 
Show  them  in. 

(FULLERTON  crosses,  opens  door  left,  and  calls  out.) 
FULLERTON.     Step  in  here,  son. 

(HUGH  FULLERTON,  JR.,  enters,  followed  by 
COAKLEY.  Both  are  very  well  dressed,  espe 
cially  COAKLEY,  who  remains  near  the  hat- 
rack,  on  which  he  hangs  his  hat  and  crook- 
handled  cane.  As  FILSON  greets  HUGH, 
COAKLEY  stands  near  left  door,  lighting  cigar 
ette.) 

FILSON.  (Making  light  of  the  matter)  Well, 
Hugh.  (Rises  and  shakes  hands)  Glad  to  see  you 
back  from  over  the  pond — but  what's  this  I  hear 
(Smiling)  you  young  rascal — running  with  a  woman, 
were  you? 

HUGH.  Yes,  Judge,  I  came  home  to  find  trouble 
awaiting  me. 

FILSON.    I'm  very  sorry. 

HUGH.  I'm  sorry,  too — sorry  for  the  girl  if  her 
claim  can  be  true.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  hard 
of  me,  Judge.  I  do  the  things  that  other  men  do, 


COMMON  CLAY  45 

but  I've  made  it  a  rule  of  my  life  never  to  harm  a 

good  woman * 

FULLERTON.  It's  the  code  of  all  the  Fullerton 
men! ! 

(COAKLEY  seems  half  puzzled — half  amused.) 

HUGH.  And  I've  lived  up  to  it.  Before  I  spoke 
a  word  to  that  girl  I  knew  that  she  had  a  past. 
And  here's  a  man  by  whom  I  can  prove  it.  (Turn 
ing  toward  COAKLEY  introductorily)  You  ought  to 
know  Artie  Coakley,  Judge  Filson. 

FILSON.  I  know  his  father  very  well.  (They 
shake  hands) 

COAKLEY.  (Excitedly)  Well,  for  God's  sake 
don't  mention  any  of  this  to  him,  Judge. 

FILSON.     Certainly  not,  Mr.  Coakley. 

COAKLEY.  It  isn't  that  he'd  jump  on  me,  Judge — • 
you  know  the  old  gentleman — there's  a  streak  in  him 
that  runs  into  me  and  every  time  I  get  into  a  scrape 
he  blames  himself,  Judge — says  nothing,  just  suffers 
like  the  damned. 

FILSON.     (Sympathetically)     Oh,  yes,  I  see. 

COAKLEY.  I  told  Hugh  that  if  he  could  be  sure 
not  to  let  the  matter  get  into  court  I  would  be  will 
ing  to  say  here  what  testimony  I  could  give — in  a 
pinch. 

FILSON.  (Reassuringly)  Oh,  we  will  settle  it 
out  of  court — but  the  best  way  to  keep  a  case  out  of 
court  is  to  show  the  other  side  your  strength  in 
court. 

FULLERTON.  When  Coakley  tells  what  he  knows 
she  won't  dare  go  into  Court.  (He  turns  and 
addresses  HUGH)  But  my  son,  you'd  better  get 
out  now.  That  girl  and  her  lawyer  will  be  here  and 
there's  nothing  to  be  gained  by  your  seeing  her.  Is 
there,  Sam? 


46  COMMON  CLAY 

FILSON.  Hardly — there  was  not  much  gained  by 
his  seeing  her  at  first. 

HUGH.  But  I  want  to  see  her,  Dad.  Here's  a 
woman  setting  up  all  sorts  of  claims  on  me. 

FULLERTON.  I'm  not  going  to  see  her.  Nor  must 
you. 

FILSON.    Your  father's  right,  Hugh. 

HUGH.  Well,  I'll  go — (He  turns  to  COAKLEY  and 
shakes  hands)  Thanks  awfully  old  chap  for  back 
ing  me  up  in  this.  It's  awfully  decent  of  you. 
(Opens  door)  Good-bye — and  good  luck.  (Exit 
HUGH  left.  FILSON  motions  the  others  to  seats  and 
sits  back  of  desk.  COAKLEY  sits  left  of  desk.  FULL 
ERTON  draws  up  a  chair  and  sits  right  of  desk) 

FILSON.  Mr.  Coakley,  what  can  you  tell  us  con 
cerning  this  girl,  Miss — eer — what  is  her  name? 

FULLERTON.     She  calls  herself  Ellen  Neal. 

COAKLEY.  Yes,  that's  her  name.  Judge,  I  know 
all  about  her.  It's  true  that  for  more  than  a  year 
before  Hugh  ever  saw  her  she  wasn't  straight. 

FULLERTON.    Just  a  common  blackmailer,  you  see. 

COAKLEY.  I  can't  think  of  her  doing  anyone  a 
dirty  trick,  somehow. 

FULLERTON.  Nonsense,  a  woman  of  that  sort  will 
do  anything. 

COAKLEY.  She  wouldn't.  You  see  it  was  the 
things  outside  of  herself  that  forced  her  where  she 
is — and  with  me — (Pauses  and  continues  ruefully) 
well,  it  was  something  inside  that  made  such  a  rotter 
of  me.  It  was  born  into  me — and  she  was  born 
into  it.  You  might  say  that  I  was  responsible  for 
her  downfall.  (He  grows  nervous  under  the  inter 
ested  gazes  of  the  others)  I  didn't  mean  to  do  it — • 
I  didn't  want  to  be  a  rotter  any  more  than  she  did. 

FILSON.  I'm  sorry  for  you  both,  Mr.  Coakley. 
I  think  I  can  understand.  But  did  this  girl  frequent 
improper  places? 

COAKLEY.    I  wouldn't  say  that  she  frequented  such 


COMMON  CLAY  47 

places.  I  met  her  in  Bender's  dance  hall — and — 
(Hesitates)  Bulr  I  want  it  understood  that  we  are 
not  going  to  get  into  court. 

FILSON.  (Reassuringly)  I'm  not  going  to  let 
the  case  get  into  court — if  you'll  tell  me  enough  to 
keep  the  girl  out  of  court. 

COAKLEY.  Well  then — I  took  her  to  916  Maple 
Street. 

FULLERTON.    What's  that? 

COAKLEY.    916  Maple  Street. 

FULLERTON.    Are  you  sure  of  that  number? 

COAKLEY.  You  ought  to  know — you  own  the 
property!  (Smiling  sardonically)  Yes,  it's  the 
place  that  Daisy  Lloyd  runs — all  the  comforts  of 
home  and  a  few  additional  privileges.  (FULLERTON 
fidgets  uneasily)  How  much  rent  does  Daisy  pay 
you  every  month  for  the  house,  Mr.  Fullerton? 

FULLERTON.  You  can't  hold  me  responsible  for 
what  goes  on  in  houses  that  I  rent  out 

COAKLEY.    Especially  if  it  makes  the  rent  larger. 

FULLERTON.  (Rises,  infuriated)  That's  enough 
from  you,  sir.  I  don't  propose  to  be  twitted  by 
a  little  degenerate  like  you, — a  man  who  has  just 
admitted  that  he's  responsible  for  a  woman's  down 
fall.  (Sits) 

COAKLEY.  (Calmly)  But  think  how  many  more 
downfalls  I  would  be  responsible  for  if  I  drew  the 
rent  from  that  house — as  you  do.  You  know,  the 
difference  between  us  is,  you  deal  in  downfalls  by 
the  wholesale  and  I'm  only  a  little  retailer  who  has 
to  give  his  personal  attention  to  each  job.  (FULL 
ERTON  fumes  and  FILSON  represses  a  smile. 
COAKLEY  blows  rings  of  smoke  and  squints  at  them 
while  calmly  delivering  himself  of  a  bit  of  philos 
ophy)  It's  a  queer  civilization,  isn't  it,  where  the 
best  citizens,  simply  by  sitting  still  and  taking 
profits  can  be  more  potent  factors  in  vice  and  crime 


48  COMMON  CLAY 

than  the  worst  little  degenerates.  Something's 
wrong. 

FULLERTON.  (Goaded  by  the  other's  calm)  See 
here,  I  won'f  stand  this.  (He  rises  and  advances 
on  COAKLEY,  but  FILSON  rises  and  comes  between 
just  as  the  door  left  opens  and  Miss  WARREN 
enters,  closing  it  behind  her.  FULLERTON  calms 
down) 

Miss  WARREN.  Judge  Filson,  there's  a  girl  to 
see  you — and  her  lawyer  (Looks  at  card)  "  W.  H. 
Yates."  (Hands  card  to  him) 

FULLERTON.     Don't  let  the  girl  in  till  I  get  out! 

F'ILSON.  (To  Miss  WARREN)  One  moment. 
(To  COAKLEY)  Coakley,  you  step  in  that  room, 
(Indicating  R.  COAKLEY  rises)  and  wait  until  I  call 
you.  I  want  you  to  confront  the  girl  at  the  psycho 
logical  moment. 

( COAKLEY  starts   toward   door  right,   pauses  and 
speaks.) 

COAKLEY.    I  feel  like  a  dog — telling  on  that  girl. 

FULLERTON.  (Standing  right  of  desk)  It's  your 
duty  and  you're  only  telling  the  truth. 

COAKLEY.  But  I  was  reared  a  gentleman  and 
there's  one  thing  that  a  gentleman  is  always  in 
structed  to  lie  about — that  is  the  honor  of  a  woman 
— no  matter  ivhat  the  woman  does. 

FULLERTON.  I  know — eer — but  it  does  matter 
who  the  woman  is. 

(COAKLEY  looks  at  FULLERTON  and  a  sardonic  flash 
of  realisation  comes  across  his  features.) 

COAKLEY.  That  fortifies  me  to  do  my  worst. 
(Exit  COAKLEY,  right) 

FILSON.  Now,  Dick — keep  your  head — 'this  fel 
low  Yates  is  a  shyster.  We  can  settle  anything  with 


COMMON  CLAY  49 

him  if  the  girl  and  you  won't  kick  the  fat  in  the 
fire.  But,  remejnber  that  a  law-suit  may  be  started 
by  losing  one's  temper.  (To  Miss  WARREN)  Show 
Mr.  Yates  in — (FULLERTON  looks  concerned)  have 
the  girl  wait  outside. 

( FULLERTON  looks  relieved.) 

Miss  WARREN.  Very  well,  sir.  (She  exits,  leav 
ing  the  door  left  open,  and  a  moment  later  there 
enters  YATES.  Attorney  YATES  is  something  of  a 
contrast  to  his  colleague  FILSON.  He  is  crass  and 
crafty  and  not  well-dressed.  He  affects  a  slyness 
and  an  overdone  sophistication.  Before  a  jury  he 
would  denounce  FILSON  as  the  kept-man  of  the 
vested  interests,  but  nothing  pleases  YATES  more 
than  to  be  on  excellent  terms  with  a  lazvyer  so  suc 
cessful  professionally  and  socially.  FILSON  is  well 
aware  of  this  weakness  and  makes  the  most  of  it. 
He  knows  that  when  YATES  has  brought  enough 
successful  damage  suits  against  the  corporations  the 
same  YATES  may  then  be  regularly  retained  by  the 
interests  he  has  assailed,  and  he  is  even  now  con 
sidering  negotiations  to  this  end.  FILSON'S  manner 
is  breezy ;  so  is  that  of  YATES,  who  steps  in  springily 
and  holds  out  his  hand) 

YATES.    Ah,  Judge — we  clash  again. 

FILSON.  (Rising  and  extending  his  hand  across 
desk)  Well,  Brother  Yates — I  hope  this  may  not 
be  a  clash  exactly.  This  is  Mr.  Fullerton,  Mr. 
Yates.  (YATES  extends  his  hand  mechanically, 
FULLERTON,  coolly,  and  while  the  two  approach  each 
other,  YATES  opens  his  mouth  in  a  puzzled  look  and 
drops  his  hand,  surprised)  Ah,  you've  seen  Mr. 
Fullerton  before? 

YATES.  (Politely  hesitant)  No,  and  I  expected 
to  meet  a — eer — younger  man. 


50  COMMON  CLAY 

FULLERTON.  Sir,  Sir,  I  don't  understand — (He 
realises)  Oh, — it  isn't  /.  It's  my  son. 

YATES.  Oh,  I  see — I  took  the  father  for  the 
son — (lie  smiles  and  points  his  meaning)  when  in 
this  case,  its  the  son  who  is  the  father. 

(FILSON  laughs  slyly.) 

FULLERTON.    Sir  ? 

FILSON.    We  admit  nothing. 

YATES.  (Smiling  knowingly)  Of  course  you 
admit  nothing,  Judge,  you're  his  lawyer 

FULLERTON.    (Fuming)    And  /  admitted  nothing. 

YATES.  Not  intentionally,  but  didn't  you  say 
(He  points  each  word  by  bringing  his  left  index 
finger  into  the  palm  of  his  right  hand)  "It  isn't  I 
— it's  my  son " — didn't  you  use  those  words — 
(Turns  to  FILSON)  You  heard  him  say  it. — 

FULLERTON.    Confound  you,  sir,  I  didn't  mean  it. 

YATES.    You  mean  you  didn't  mean  to  say  it. 

FULLERTON.  (Enraged,  rises)  Damn  it,  sir — I 
didn't  suppose  that  I'd  have  to  deal  with  a  black 
leg 

( FILSON  rises  and  steps  in  between.) 

FILSON.  Come  now,  this  is  never  going  to  get  us 
anywhere.  You'll  throw  the  whole  thing  into  court 
before  you  know  it.  (He  quiets  them  down)  Let 
two  lawyers  settle  this  matter.  Dick,  you  go  in 
there.  (Indicates  right.  FULLERTON  nurses  his 
rage  and  puts  his  hand  on  knob  of  door,  right) 

FULLERTON.  I  leave  the  amount  of  hush-money — 
(Glaring  at  YATES  and  repeating  the  word  with 
greater  emphasis  for  his  benefit)  hush-money — to 
your  judgment.  (He  exits,  rolling  his  eyes  at 
YATES) 

YATES.    He's  a  pleasant  fellow. 


COMMON  CLAY  51 

FILSON.  (Seating  himself  and  motioning  YATES 
to  chair  left,  wheje  YATES  sits)  He's  the  best  fel 
low  in  the  world — kind  father,  good  husband — but 
the  gentlest  creature  will  fight  when  its  young  are 
threatened. 

YATES.  Yes,  that's  just  the  case  with  my  client. 
And  we  lawyers  have  got  to  make  a  living,  eh? 

FILSON.  (Opening  a  box  of  cigars  and  holding 
them  to  YATES  who  takes  one,  smells  of  it,  and 
puts  it  in  his  vest  pocket)  Exactly,  brother  Yates, 
(Holds  a  light  for  YATES,  who  re-lights  a  half- 
smoked  cigar  which  he  has  been  holding)  Exactly, 
and  here's  a  case  where  we  ought  to  get  together — 
(He  lights  his  own  cigar  and  speaks  softly  and  in 
sinuatingly)  and  compromise. 

YATES.  (Smiling  slyly)  Spoken  like  a  lawyer, 
Judge — we  ought  to  get  together. 

FILSON.    Well,  what  does  your  client  want  ? 

YATES.  (Slyly)  She  wanted  to  talk  personally 
with  young  Fullerton;  but  I  persuaded  her  to  let 
me  see  you,  first. 

FILSON.  Is  the  girl  in  love  with  young  Fuller- 
ton? 

YATES.  She  didn't  say  so — but  it's  very  evident. 
Believe  me,  I  know  women. 

FILSON.  Then  do  you  really  believe  that  young 
Fullerton  is  the  father  of  her  child? 

YATES.  Yes,  and  if  you  talked  to  her  for  ten 
minutes  you'd  believe  it,  too.  He  ought  to  marry 
her. 

FILSON.     (Concerned)    Does  she  ask  it? 

YATES.  No.  She  seems  to  have  a  good  bit  of 
pride — and  she  doesn't  want  money — for  herself — 
she  wants  it  for  the  child.  She  says  that  her  boy 
ought  to  have  a  chance  in  the  world  and  that  her 
own  experience  has  taught  her  that  without  some 
money  no  one  has  a  chance — and  with  it  you  can 
make  anything  right. 


52  COMMON  CLAY 

FILSON.    A  cynical  philosophy. 

YATES.  (Shrugging  his  shoulders)  She  learned 
it  from  life — she's  wise  beyond  her  years,  Judge — 
she's  had  to  be.  She  says  the  child's  entitled  to 
just  as  much  as  If  he  were  the  legal  heir. 

FILSON.  Eh,  what's  that?  Why,  man,  Hugh 
Fullerton's  heir  is  to  have  the  largest  fortune  in  this 
State. 

YATES.  (Calmly  blowing  cigar  smoke  upwards) 
That's  what  I'm  after — and  Miss  Neal  has  the 
whole  thing  planned  out.  She's  going  to  have  the 
child  adopted  by  good  people.  No  one  will  ever 
know  anything  about  who  its  mother  is — or  its 
father.  All  the  money's  to  be  put  into  a  trust  fund 
for  the  child.  She  wants  money  only  for  her  child — 
I'll  take  my  part  of  it  for  myself. 

FILSON.  Oh,  we  are  willing  to  give  what's  right. 
Fullerton  doesn't  know  that  Hugh  is  responsible  for 
this  condition  but  he  realizes  that  there's  a  chance 
of  it  and  he  doesn't  want  to  find  out  the  truth  of 
the  matter — naturally.  So  we're  willing  to  settle, 
but  we  don't  propose  to  be  held  up  for  any  ridiculous 
amount  and  if  you  push  things  too  far  you'll  force 
us  into  court,  that's  all. 

YATES.  Her  terms  are  not  ridiculous — they  are 
based  on  a  high  sense  of  justice.  It  is  not  the 
child's  fault  that  he  is  not  the  legal  heir,  and  he  is 
entitled  in  justice  to  as  much  as  if  he  were  the  legal 
heir. 

FILSON.  That's  a  rather  original  way  of  looking 
at  it. 

YATES.  As  far  as  the  kid's  concerned  it's  a  just 
way.  Those  are  our  terms — in  court  or  out,  we  stick 
'r,o  them. 

FILSON.  (After  a  pause)  Do  you  know  your 
client  ? 

YATES.     Only  as  a  client. 

FILSON.    Then  you'd  better  not  take  her  to  court, 


COMMON  CLAY;  53 

for  there  I  can  prove  that  before  she  met  young 
Fullerton  she  was* just  a  woman  of  the  town. 

YATES.  (Smiling  incredulously)  Naturally, 
that's  what  you'd  try  to  prove. 

FILSON.  And  I'll  prove  it,  too.  (FiLSON  goes  to 
door  R.,  opens  it  and  looks  through  door,  calling 
off-stage)  Will  you  step  in  here,  Mr.  Coakley? 
(COAKLEY  enters,  FILSON  indicating  him  addresses 
YATES  combatively)  Here's  a  man  who'll  testify 
in  court  if  necessary,  that  your  client  has  a  past — • 
in  which  he  is  personally  concerned.  Am  I  right, 
Mr.  Coakley? 

COAKLEY.  Yes — ^eer — it's  true.  (YATES  gives 
COAKLEY  a  defiant  appraising  look)  But  I  trust  I 
won't  have  to  testify — can't  you  lawyers  keep  this 
thing  out  of  court?  I've  caused  trouble  and  shame 
enough  to  my  family  already — (Under  YATE'S  ag 
gressive  gaze  COAKLEY  grows  uneasy)  but,  of 
course,  if  I'm  called  I'll  have  to  tell  what  I  know — • 
She  knew  me  before  she  knew  Hugh.  I  found  her 
at  Bender's  dance  hall  and  I  persuaded  her  to  go 
with  me  to  916  Maple  Street. 

( YATES  gives  COAKLEY  a  quick  glance  and  FILSON 
attempts  to  check  COAKLEY'S  confession  in  the 
presence  of  YATES.) 

YATES.  There's  always  a  fellow  like  you  hang 
ing  around — ready  to  help — in  a  frame-up. 

FILSON.  Now  see  here,  Yates,  I  don't  manu 
facture  evidence — this  is  no  frame-up 

YATES.  Well,  I'll  see  quick  enough.  (He  goes 
to  door  L.  and  turns  toward  them  with  his  hand 
on  the  knob)  I'll  bet  she  won't  know  you. 

COAKLEY.  (Holding  out  his  hand  in  protest) 
ph,  wait — — • 


54  COMMON  CLAY 

(YATES  gives  a  quick  sly  grin,  feeling  that  he  has 
exposed  COAKLEY'S  play.) 

YATES.  (Laughing)  Oh,  you  want  to  wait,  do 
you?  (Quickly  opens  door)  Miss  Neal,  will  you 
step  in  here. 

(All  three  expectantly  await  the  entrance  of  ELLEN, 
who  comes  in  with  her  eyes  downcast,  pale  and 
embarrassed  in  appearance.  She  happens  to 
look  tip  and  seeing  COAKLEY  she  starts,  gasps 
and  almost  swoons.  YATES  is  completely  flab 
bergasted  at  the  recognition.) 

YATES.    Do  you  know  that  man  ? 

ELLEN.    Yes. 

FILSON.  (Triumphantly)  Yes,  she  knows  him, 
and  there  goes  your  case — (Snapping  his  fingers) 
up  in  smoke. 

ELLEN.  (To  COAKLEY,  tears  of  anger  coming 
into  her  eyes.  She  controls  herself  and  faces  him 
as  she  speaks,  thof  she  is  visibly  embarrassed)  I 
suppose  you've  come  to  tell  on  me. 

COAKLEY.  Well— eer— yes,  Ellen.  That  is,  you 
see,  it  can't  be  helped— unless  you'll  be  reasonable— 
(Her  manner  becomes  more  and  more  defiant  and 
contemptuous  as  his  becomes  more  propitiating  and 
embarrassed)  Now  why  don't  you  look  at  it 
reasonably  and  help  us  all  out — for  after  all,  Ellen, 
Hugh  Fullerton  was  not  the  only  man  in  your  life— 
and  you  can't  deny  that  to  me. 

(She  glares  at  him,  tears  of  anger  come  into  her 
eyes,  and  she  wipes  them  with  her  handker 
chief,  gulps  down  her  rage  and  shame  and  pulls 
herself  together.) 

t  ELLEN.    I'm  not  the  kind  of  a  woman  that  men 
like  to  hear  crying. 


COMMON  CLAY  55 

COAKLEY.  (Brightening)  That's  right,  don't  cry, 
Ellen — think  of  htfw  hard  you  are  making  it  for  all 
of  us — and  be  assured  of  this,  that  I'll  not  lie  about 
you — even  if  you  force  me  into  the  witness  stand 
—I'll  only  tell  the  truth. 

ELLEN.  (Calmly  tense)  The  truth — I'm  the 
kind  of  woman  that  men  tell  the  truth  about — I'm 
not  important  enough  for  them  to  lie  for — or  to 
fight  for — (With  energy  while  COAKLEY  starts) 
so  I  guess  I'll  have  to  fight  for  myself — it's  the  only 
way  to  get  any  respect — to  strike  back — (Turning 
to  YATES,  who  has  sunk  into  a  chair  and  has  not 
recovered  from  the  recognition)  You're  my  lawyer 
— don't  sit  there  and  look  down  and  out.  Tell  me 
something  to  do — if  a  woman  hasn't  a  husband  or 
somebody  else  to  strike  back  for  her  when  she's 
hounded  by  a  dog  like  this — (Indicating  COAKLEY) 
doesn't  the  law  do  anything  for  her? 

(At  this  YATES,  who  has  been  feebly  gesticulating 
his  helplessness,  appears  to  get  an  inspiration.) 

YATES.  (Rises)  Wait  a  minute!  Maybe  the 
law  will  help  you.  (Considering)  This  man  has 
just  admitted  that  he  persuaded  you  to  go  with  him 
to  916  Maple  Street.  (COAKLEY  sees  a  trap  and 
winces,  and  YATES  turns  to  ELLEN)  How  long 
ago  was  that? 

ELLEN.    Two  years — I'll  not  forget  it 

YATES.    How  old  were  you  then  ? 

ELLEN.     Eighteen ! 

YATES.  (To  ELLEN)  We've  got  'em!  (To 
COAKLEY)  There's  a  statute  in  this  state  which 
provides  that  a  man  who  entices  a  girl  under  twenty- 
one  to  such  a  house  is  guilty  of  a  felony.  (Turns 
quickly  to  FILSON,  shaking  finger  at  him)  And 
there  goes  your  case — up  in  smoke.  (  FILSON  starts, 
COAKLEY  sits  down  w**£  his  head  in  his  hands, 


56  COMMON  CLAY 

YATES  stands  and  lifts  his  voice)  That  fellow  has 
just  confessed  to  a  crime. 

FILSON.    Come,  come,  Yates. 

YATES.  (Loudly)  I'm  coming  and  coming 
strong.  If  this  fellow  tells  what  he  knows  in  court 
he'll  tell  it  as  the  defendant  in  his  own  trial  and 
not  as  a  witness  against  this  girl — and  what  he  tells 
will  send  him  to  the  penitentiary.  All  we  have  to 
do  is  to  swear  out  a  warrant. 

COAKLEY.  (In  great  excitement)  A  warrant! 
You're  not  going  to  let  him  get  a  warrant,  Judge. 

YATES.  What  the  Hell  has  he  got  to  do  with 
that.  He  ain't  the  only  lawyer  in  town.  You'd 
better  make  up  your  mind  not  to  tell  any  tales,  young 
fellow. 

COAKLEY.  (Terrified}  I'm  out  of  it  all.  I 
won't  testify  to  anything,  anywhere.  (Starts  to  go, 
but  ELLEN  confronts  him  angrily  in  front  of  door, 
left) 

ELLEN.  Oh,  yes  you  will — You've  told  on  me 
twice.  And  you'll  tell  again — in  court.  (To  YATES) 
Let's  go  get  that  warrant.  (YATES  turns  aside  and 
motions  to  FILSON.  They  talk  together  a  moment 
earnestly,  but  no  one  hears  what  /s*  said.  ELLEN 
speak  angrily  to  YATES  when  she  observes  this 
parley)  If  you're  my  lawyer,  you've  got  to  show 
some  fight  or  I'll  get  another.  (She  exits,  slamming 
door,  left) 

YATES.  Well,  I  gotta  go  along  with  her,  Judge. 
(Grabs  hat  from  table)  I'll  call  you  up.  (Rushes 
to  door,  left,  turns  on  COAKLEY)  As  for  you,  I'll 
see  you  to-morrow  morning  in  the  court-room. 
(Exits  hastily,  left} 

COAKLEY.  (Turning  on  FILSON)  This  is  the 
Hell  of  a  way  to  keep  a  man  out  of  court. 

(FULLERTON  pokes  his  head  in  through  door  right, 
then  enters,  looking  about  inquiringly.) 


COMMON  CLAY  57 


FULLERTON.  What's  happened  now? 
FILSON.  They've  gone  for  a  warrant. 
FULLERTON.  (Excited)  A  warrant — for  whom? 

( FILSON  indicates  COAKLEY  and  FULLERTON  looks 
relieved.    COAKLEY  glares  at  him.) 

COAKLEY.    You  got  me  into  this. 

FULLERTON.  No,  Artie.  But  I  was  afraid  you'd 
talk  too  much.  (To  FILSON)  But  what's  to  be 
done  about  Hugh? 

FILSON.    We've  got  one  chance — her  lawyer. 

FULLERTON.  That  shyster — I  wouldn't  trust  him. 
He's  in  this  for  the  money  he  can  get  out  of  it. 

FILSON.  Exactly — that's  the  one  chance  I  spoke 
of, 

FULLERTON.  Ah,  yes,  I  see — well  Sam,  anything 
to  save  the  honor  of  the  Fullertons. 

COAKLEY.  (Rises)  What  about  the  honor  of  the 
Coakleysf  They're  quite  a  important  as  the  Full 
ertons. 

FILSON.  Now,  listen — both  of  you.  Yates  is 
coming  back  here  after  the  warrant's  out — as  soon 
as  he  can  get  away  from  that  mad  girl.  He's  not 
going  to  let  this  settlement  fall  through — he  wants 
his  part  of  the  money — and  the  girl  has  to  have  the 
money  or  her  child  will  starve — so  there  we  are. 
(Pauses)  This  girl  is  only  a  human  being  with  a 
child — both  are  up  against  the  need  of  money  and 
we  have  it.  We  are  bound  to  win. 

COAKLEY.  But  what  will  become  of  me?  Why 
don't  you  stop  that  warrant  ? 

FILSON.  I  can't — I  would  gladly  do  so  if  I  could 
— but  that  woman's  in  earnest. 

COAKLEY.    Then  /'//  be  thrown  to  the  wolves. 

FILSON.  No,  we're  going  to  stand  by  you.  I'll 
appear  in  court  to-morrow  and  defend  you. 


58  COMMON  CLAY 

COAKLEY.  In  court— Oh,  my  God— everybody  in 
town  will  know  all  about  it.  If  I  get  into  court 
(Shaking  finger  at  FULLERTON)  you'll  have  to  come 
— as  a  witness. 

(FULLERTON  leaps  in  fright  as  if  he  had  sat  on  a 
pin,  drawing  a  quick  breath  of  abject  terror.) 

FILSON.  (Ironically)  Yes,  that's  wise.  Full- 
erton  can  only  be  a  witness  against  you.  He  heard 
your  confession.  His  testimony  would  send  you  to 
the  Penitentiary. 

COAKLEY.  (Non-plussed)  I'm  the  goat — I'm 
always  the  goat — I  was  born  to  be  a  goat.  (He 
ivalks  up  and  down  wringing  his  hands,  then  steps 
in  front  of  FULLERTON  as  with  an  inspiration)  If  I 
get  into  court,  you'll  get  into  the  papers. 

FULLERTON.     But  my  dear  fellow,  you  surely — 

FILSON.  Here,  listen  to  me.  Dick,  you  know 
every  newspaper  owner  in  town. 

FULLERTON.  There  won't  be  a  word  published — 
(To  COAKLEY)  about  your  arrest  or  your  trial. 

COAKLEY.  That  will  help  some.  And  if  you  can 
see  Yates  and  talk  it  over,  and  get  him  to  persuade 
the  girl 

FILSON.  I'm  going  to  have  a  conference  with 
Yates  this  afternoon.  But  there's  no  way  of  pre 
venting  that  girl  from  having  a  day  in  court  with 
you — you'll  go  through  the  examining  trial  in  the 
Police  Court 

COAKLEY.    The  Police  Court — (He  groans) 

FILSON.  I'll  probably  not  put  you  on  the  stand  at 
all — the  accused  does  not  have  to  testify  if  he  thinks 
best,  and  we'll  have  the  girl  down  under  oath  as  to 
her  doings  when  she  testifies  against  you.  That 
will  weaken  her  case  against  the  Fullertons 

FULLERTON.  (Brightening)  So  it  will — so  it 
Sam,  you've  a  very  quick  mind. 


COMMON  CLAY,  59 

FILSON.  And  she'll  be  willing  to  settle  her  claim 
for  less  money.  « 

FULLERTON.  Give  her  what's  right,  Sam,  but  see 
that  she  and  Yates  agree  that  Hugh's  part  in  her 
history  does  not  come  up  in  court. 

FILSON.  Certainly — that  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  case  against  Coakley — and  Yates  himself  will 
take  the  Prosecuting  Attorney's  place  in  the  morn 
ing — there  will  be  no  chance  of  a  leak  then,  and  it's 
easier  too  because  I  don't  believe  that  girl  wants 
Hugh  to  be  involved — Yates  thinks  she's  in  love 
with  Hugh. 

FULLERTON.  Oh,  the  idea  of  it.  But  I'll  go  at 
once  to  the  papers  and  stop  any  publication.  {He 
takes  his  hat  and  starts  toward  door  left)  I'll  cer 
tainly  keep  it  bottled  up.  Depend  on  that.  (With 
a  sudden  inspiration)  I  can  ask  the  newspapers  to 
stop  it  on  Artie's  account — that  will  divert  any 
suspicion  from  me — and  when  you're  arrested,  my 
boy,  I'll  go  on  your  bond.  (Patting  his  shoulder) 

COAKLEY.    But  I  don't  want  to  be  arrested. 

(The  'phone  rings.  FILSON  takes  down  receiver. 
FULLERTON  pauses  with  his  hand  on  the  door 
knob.  COAKLEY  awaits  anxiously.) 

FILSON.  (In  'phone)  Hello — Yes,  that  you 
Yates?  Well,  it  can't  be  helped — and  Yates,  don't 
forget  to  meet  me  at  four  this  afternoon — and  mean 
time  get  your  client  to  agree  to  reasonable  terms 
from  Fullerton.  All  right — see  you  later.  (He  puts 
up  receiver)  Well  the  warrant's  out. 

COAKLEY.  (In  terror)  Judge,  for  God's  sake 
keep  me  out  of  that  trial.  Isn't  there  something  you 
can  do? 

(  FILSON  glances  with  compassion  at  the  boy,  then 
takes  up  a  copy  of  the  statutes  from  desk  and 


60  COMMON  CLAY 

as  he  hastily  runs  his  finger  through  the  index 
he  talks  to  COAKLEY  while  FULLERTON  lingers 
at  the  door.) 

FILSON.    There's  one  alternative,  perhaps — = — 

COAKLEY.     (Eagerly)     What  is  it? 

FILSON.  Wait  a  minute.  Ah,  yes,  here  it  is, 
Section  108  B.  (He  reads  intently  to  himself)  Yes, 
I  was  right — (Looks  up  from  book,  then  rises)  The 
legislature  in  its  wisdom  has  seen  fit  to  ordain  that 
a  man  may  make  a  bad  woman  good  by  marrying 
her  and  thereby  investing  her  with  his  own  good 
ness.  In  other  words,  the  statute  provides  that  a 
man  accused  as  you  are  may  escape  trial  and  penalty 
by  marrying  or  offering  to  marry  the  woman. 

FULLERTON.  Splendid,  splendid — that  solves  the 
whole  problem.  (To  COAKLEY,  who  is  dazed) 
You  can  marry  the  girl.  You  owe  it  to  her,  anyhow 
— by  your  own  confession.  And  then,  too,  I've 
known  of  cases  like  that  where  women  have  braced 
up  and  made  excellent  wives — often  all  that  they 
need  is  a  chance,  you  know 

COAKLEY.    But  you  wouldn't  let  Hugh  marry  her. 

FULLERTON.  For  heaven's  sake,  man,  don't 
quibble.  This  is  a  time  for  action. 

COAKLEY.  Well,  I'll  be  damned.  Do  you  think 
I  could  introduce  a  woman  like  that  to  my  mother. 
No.  (He  draws  himself  up  resolutely)  I  know 
that  I've  been  a  debauchee  and  a  drunkard  but  I've 
always  remembered  that  I  was  born  a  gentleman — 
just  as  much  of  a  gentleman  as  you  are,  Mr.  Full- 
erton.  If  I've  associated  with  people  not  of  my 
class  I've  never  recognized  their  social  equality — 
the  instinct  of  a  gentleman  is  too  deep  within  me — > 
and  I  won't — I  can't — marry  a  girl  like  that,  no 
matter  what  I  owe  her  or  how  much  I  am  to  blame. 
XCOAKLEY  takes  hat  and  cane)  A  gentleman  I  was 


LEFT 


$ 


COMMON  CLAY  61 

born  and  a  gentleman  I'll  remain — if  I  have  to  go  to 
the  penitentiary  to  do  so.  (He  exits  left) 

FULLERTON.  (guzzled)  Going  to  the  penitentiary 
to  be  a  gentleman.  Sam,  he  doesn't  know  what  a 
gentleman  is. 

FILSON.  Neither  do  I,  Dick.  (Thoughtfully) 
Sometimes  I  think  there  is  no  such  animal. 

Quick  curtain 


ACT  III 

SCENE  :  The  following  morning  in  the  City  Court 
room.  Court  in  session.  JUDGE  and  officials 
in  their  places. 

Across  the  doivn-stage's  full  length  runs  a 
wooden  railing  with  a  closed  gate  in  center. 
The  action  takes  place  behind  this  railing, 
which  gives  an  effect  as  if  those  seated  in  the 
orchestra  of  the  theatre  constitute  the  spectators 
at  the  trial. 

The  court-room  is  a  typical  one  for  an  ex^ 
amining  tribunal  where  no  jury  trial  is  held. 
The  tall  narrow  windows,  all  in  rear,  are 
heavily  barred,  and  through  them  can  be  seen 
the  white  walls  of  a  jail  with  its  small  narrow 
barred  windows.  Somewhere  on  rear  wall 
hangs  a  large  clock  ticking,  with  the  time  set 
at  ii :  40,  and  a  large  calendar  from  which  a 
leaf  is  torn  daily,  revealing  the  date,  October 
10,  1905.  There  are  entrances  right  and  left 
down-stage  inside  railing — large,  high,  thick 
doors  exactly  opposite  each  other.  Also  another 
entrance  up,  right — a  smaller  door  to  the  private 
offices  of  the  court  officials.  The  judge's  tall 
bench  is  exactly  in  center.  At  its  left  is  the 


62  COMMON  CLAY 

witness  stand,  so  arranged  that  the  head  of  the 
witness  comes  a  little  higher  than  the  level  of 
the  judge's  bench.  In  the  witness-stand  is  a 
revolving  chair.  At  left  of  witness  stands 
BAILIFF,  back.  Policemen  guard  each  door. 
On  right  of  judge  is  seated  at  a  low  table  the 
clerk,  busily  engaged  with  a  confusion  of  papers 
and  a  very  large  docket.  A  duplicate  docket  is 
spread  before  the  judge.  Also  on  his  bench  are 
ink  and  pen,  pitcher  and  glass,  and  at  each  side 
on  top  an  electric  lamp.  The  -furniture  is  heavy 
and  solid. 

The  lawyers  sit  at  a  long  narrow  heavy  table  f 
right,  running  up-stage  and  down.  COAKLEY 
sits  up  next  FILSON,  with  whom  he  is  whisper 
ing  earnestly  now  and  then.  On  the  down  side 
of  FILSON  sits  YATES,  and  down  side  of  YATES 
is  vacant  chair. 

Before  the  rise  of  the  curtain  the  voice  of 
YATES  is  heard  saying — "  That's  all  I  want  to 
ask  you,  Miss  Neal." 

As  the  curtain  rises,  ELLEN  NEAL  is  on  the 
witness  stand.  Her  manner  is  a  bit  strained 
and  she  nervously  fingers  a  pair  of  worn  gloves 
in  her  lap,  but  there  is  a  certain  look  of  de 
fiance  beneath  her  discomfort.  The  prosecut 
ing  attorney  for  this  case,  YATES,  is  just  lean 
ing  back  in  his  chair.) 

YATES.    I'm  done  with  the  witness,  your  Honor. 

JUDGE.  (To  FILSON)  Does  the  defense  desire 
to  cross-examine  this  witness? 

FILSON.  (Rising)  Most  assuredly,  your  Honor. 
Just  sit  where  you  are,  Miss  Neal.  We're  not  done 
yet — there's  more  of  this  story  to  tell.  (ELLEN, 
who  has  started  to  leave  the  chair,  settles  back  in 
disappointment,  while  FILSON  addresses  the  JUDGE) 
We  are  willing  to  admit  the  girl's  story,  your 


COMMON  CLAY  63 

Honor,  as  far  as  it  went.  It  is  true  as  she  says, 
that  the  accused  took  this  girl  in  a  cab  to  the  house 
on  Maple  Street*  after  he  had  met  her  and  had 
several  drinks  with  her  at  Bender's  Dance  Hall. 
But  I  want  to  ask  her  a  question  in  extenuation  of 
my  client.  (Sits)  Miss  Neal,  you  admitted  that 
you  had  frequently  been  in  this  place  of  Bender's? 

ELLEN.    Yes,  sir,  I  went  there  for  a  while. 

FILSON.  You  knew  that  it  was  not  a  proper 
place,  didn't  you? 

ELLEN.    Well,  yes,  I  did. 

FILSON.    Then  why  did  you  go  to  this  dance-hall  ? 

ELLEN.  (Simply)  I  wanted  to  see  people  and 
have  a  good  time — I  love  to  have  a  good  time,  and 
hear  music  and  singing  and  to  dance.  I  can't  help 
it — it's  in  me. 

FILSON.  (Unwittingly  sympathetic)  But  why 
didn't  you  have  your  good  time  and  your  dancing 
at  a  proper  place  ? 

ELLEN.  I  don't  know,  sir — it  must  have  been  be 
cause  nobody  ever  seemed  to  want  me  at  a  proper 
place. 

FILSON.     Oh,  they  didn't  seem  to  want  you? 

ELLEN.  No,  sir,  I  didn't  get  invited  to  proper 
places.  People  like  you  don't  invite  poor  folks  to 
come  and  dance  with  'em.  They  make  us  wait  on 
'em  and  work  for  'em.  I  thought  of  making  my 
debut  with  the  good  people  that  season  but  was 
afraid  they  wouldn't  come  to  my  party.  So  I  made 
it  at  Bender's — met  some  nice  young  fellows  there 
too — the  best  in  town. 

FILSON.  (Nettled)  And  while  you  were  at 
Bender's  enjoying  yourself,  did  you  ever  drink  with 
the  nice  young  men? 

ELLEN.  Yes,  when  I  had  to — I  didn't  like  to — 
very  few  of  us  do — 

FILSON.    Why  did  you  do  it  then  ? 

ELLEN.    I  declined  the  first  few  times  they  asked 


64  COMMON  CLAY 

me  to  drink,  and  Bender  came  over  to  see  me.  He 
said  "  I  ain't  runnin'  this  place  in  conjunction  with 
the  Women's  Christian  Temperance  Union,  You 
have  to  hustle  booze  or  beat  it." 

FILSON.  Will  you  tell  the  Court  and  myself  the 
meaning  of  this  slang  you  use? 

ELLEN.  I  was  telling  you  his  own  words — I  don't 
like  slang  myself — but  I've  got  to  listen  to  a  lot  of 
it.  "  Hustling  booze  "  means  to  keep  the  men  buy 
ing  drinks  and  that's  what  I  had  to  do — if  I  wanted 
to  dance  and  hear  the  music,  and  meet  good-looking 
chaps  who'd  take  me  to  ride  in  automobiles. 

FILSON.  You  could  have  stayed  at  home,  couldn't 
you? 

ELLEN.    Yes,  sir,  I  suppose  so. 

FILSON.     Why  didn't  you? 

ELLEN.  (Thoughtfully)  I  don't  know — it  seems 
I  ought  to  have,  and  yet  I  just  couldn't.  There  are 
some  homes  that  are  easier  to  stick  around  than 
others — I  worked  in  one  like  that  once — it  was  a 
pretty  place  with  pictures  to  look  at,  and  books  to 
read,  and  a  room  for  music,  and  awfully  good, 
clean  things  to  eat,  and  white  bath  tubs — but  even 
there  the  young  ones  didn't  want  to  stay  at  home, 
except  when  they  were  tired  or  hungry.  It  seem's 
to  me  that  when  you're  young  and  full  of  life  you 
just  naturally  don't  want  to  stay  at  home,  and 
you're  in  a  bad  fix  if  you  haven't  any  other  place  to 
go — what  you  called  a  proper  place — 

FILSON.  That's  very  interesting,  but  you  must  be 
more  concise  in  your  answers. 

ELLEN.  You  asked  me  why  I  didn't  stay  at  home 
— I'm  trying  to  tell  you — I  can't  just  say  "  Because." 
And  I'm  trying  to  give  you  a  sensible  answer.  Did 
you  ever  ride  in  your  automobile  through  the  worst 
parts  of  town — what  people  like  you  call  the  worst 
parts  of  town — v/here  there's  smoke  and  soot  and 
railway  tracks  and  noise  and  dirt  and  saloons  and 


COMMON  CLAY  65 

factories  and  cattle  yards — you've  been  through 
there — went  in  a  hurry,  too,  I  expect — but  did  you 
ever  notice  the  lo*ig  rows  of  little  frame  houses  just 
exactly  alike — and  did  you  ever  see  the  tired,  worn 
women  hanging  over  the  gates  before  sundown? 
They  are  the  ones  that  stay  at  home —  They  stay 
there  because  they're  usd  to  it — that's  what  people 
like  you  say  about  'em.  "  Oh,  they  don't  mind, 
they're  used  to  it."  But  they're  a  lot  older  than  I 
am  before  they're  used  to  it — and  they're  so  tired 
and  worn  out  by  that  time  that  they  wouldn't  go 
around  the  corner  to  see  a  fight.  But  their  kids 
will — they've  life  in  'em  and  they  run  and  play  in 
the  streets  when  they're  young — it's  a  dangerous 
place  to  play,  but  it's  the  only  place  they  have — and 
when  they  get  a  little  older  they've  still  got  life  in 
Jem,  and  they  want  to  amuse  themselves,  and  it's 
still  a  dangerous  place  that  they  have  to  go  to — but 
they  go — it  seems  as  if  they  just  can't  help  it. 
That's  why  I  went. 

JUDGE.  (Leaning  over  the  bench  with  interest) 
What  were  the  circumstances  of  your  first  visit  to 
Bender's  ? 

ELLEN.  You  mean  how  did  I  come  to  go  there? 
I  kept  getting  hints  and  messages — it  got  up  my 
curiosity.  There  was  a  girl  who  lived  next  door 

FILSON.    What  was  her  name? 

ELLEN.     Guinevere  Peters. 

FILSON.    \Vhat  sort  was  she? 

ELLEN.  She  was  wild,  but  friendly  and  full  of 
fun.  My  mother  told  me  not  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  her. 

FILSON.  But  you  did  go  with  her  against  your 
mother's  wishes? 

ELLEN.  (Nettled)  Yes,  I  did — I  just  couldn't 
cut  her  dead  when  she  lived  right  next  door — I'm  a 
human  being. 


66  COMMON  CLAY 

FILSON.  (Sarcastically)  I  begin  to  suspect  as 
much.  But  tell  us  more  of  Guinevere. 

ELLEN.  One  summer  night  I  was  standing  at  the 
front  gate  feeling  blue  and  Guinevere  came  along 
and  said  to  me :  "  You're  stuck  on  yourself  because 
you're  straight — well,  you  needn't  be.  You  think/' 
she  said,  "that  you'll  come  to  good  and  I'll  come 
to  harm,  but  believe  me,  you're  wrong."  And  then 
Guin  pointed  to  the  window  in  our  house  where  my 
father  and  my  mother  were  sitting  by  the  coal  oil 
lamp.  "  That's  what  you'll  come  to,"  she  said,  "  if 
you  keep  straight  and  marry  the  kind  of  a  boob 
that  you'll  draw."  And  I  looked  the  way  she 
pointed  and  there  the  old  people  sat.  He  was  spell 
ing  over  the  newspaper  and  knitting  his  brows  to 
get  the  meaning  and  smoking  a  stogie  that  you  could 
smell  to  the  street,  and  she  was  sitting  there  looking 
as  if  the  Angel  Gabriel  couldn't  blow  his  horn  soon 
enough  to  suit  her.  "  That's  the  reward  of  virtue 
for  women  like  us,"  said  Guin.  "  We  can  be  the 
good,  honest,  hard-working  wives  of  boneheaded 
men,  and  engage  in  the  greatest  of  all  indoor  sports 
— dish  wishin'.  If  you  like  that  sort  of  thing,  go  to 
it.  But  don't  get  it  into  your  head  that  you'll  be 
appreciated  for  making  a  drudge  of  yourself.  Why, 
let  me  tell  you  something,"  she  said,  "  I  could  go 
in  there  and  take  him  away  from  her  any  time  I 
got  ready."  And  then  Guin  told  me  that  the  men 
around  Bender's  had  been  asking  about  me.  "  Swell 
boys  come  there  in  automobiles,"  she  said,  "  they 
know  how  to  spend  their  money  and  have  a  good 
time.  They  want  to  meet  you."  And  she  asked  me 
to  come  down  to  Bender's  with  her,  but  I  wouldn't 

FILSON.  Oh,  you  wouldn't  go — then  what  has  all 
this  to  do  with  my  question? 

ELLEN.     Well,  you  see — I — er — went  later. 
FILSON.    Oh,  you  went  later — how  much  later? 


COMMON  CLAY  67 

ELLEN.  I  went  a  few  days  later.  I  got  to  think 
ing  over  what  Guinevere  said.  It  seemed  to  me  there 
was  something  in*it. 

FILSON.  It  didn't  take  much  to  persuade  you, 
then? 

ELLEN.  It  didn't  take  much  to  let  me  see  that  no 
matter  what  I  did  there  wasn't  much  in  life  for  me. 
And  then  a  few  days  later  when  I  was  sprinkling 
the  street,  along  came  a  big  auto  full  of  clean- 
looking  boys,  and  they  waved  their  straw  hats  at  me 
and  smiled,  and  they  looked  so  happy  and  cool  and 
free,  that  it  just  made  me  laugh  to  think  that  some 
body  was  having  a  good  time  anyhow.  And  then 
they  turned  the  machine  around  and  came  up  to  the 
curbing,  and  one  of  them  jumped  out.  "  Come  along 
Irene  and  take  a  ride."  "You're  pretty  fresh,"  I 
said,  "  and  my  name's  not  Irene."  And  he  said, 
"  Well,  whatever  your  name  is,  we'll  scout  around 
and  see  if  there's  any  joy  left  in  the  world."  And 
there  the  big  car  was  chugging  away  right  in  front 
of  me,  and  all  those  happy  good-natured  boys  ask 
ing  me  to  come  along  to  the  woods  and  the  fields  and 
out  of  that  dust  and  smoke.  I  turned  'em  down 
cold,  tho',  and  before  they  went  away  they  said 
they'd  be  in  at  Bender's  after  dark  if  I  wanted  to 
change  my  mind. 

FILSON.  (Sarcastically)  And  you  changed  your 
mind — at  dark. 

ELLEN.  I  went  in  to  supper  and  I  never  saw 
that  stuffy,  little  house  look  so  dingy  or  feel  so  hot, 
and  the  supper  never  was  so  greasy,  and  the  oil 
cloth  on  the  table  never  was  so  dirty.  Then  while  I 
was  washing  the  dishes  at  the  kitchen  sink,  up  came 
the  moon,  big  and  red  through  the  smoke,  and  I 
thought  of  how  it  would  look  out  on  the  cool, 
country  roads  in  a  little  while,  shining  like  silver. 
I  just  couldn't  stand  it  another  minute.  I  walked 


68  COMMON  CLAY 

out  of  that  kitchen,  put  on  my  best  things,  and 
went. 

FILSON.  (Smiling f  insinuatingly)  Oh,  you  went, 
eh? 

ELLEN.  (With  defiance  at  FILSON)  Yes,  we've 
got  a  right  to  more  than  living — we've  got  a  right 
to  have  a  good  time  in  this  world. 

FILSON.  And  you  found  your  idea  of  a  good 
time  when  you  met  the  boys  at  Bender's  ? 

ELLEN.  Well,  it  wasn't  what  I  would  have  picked, 
but  it  was  the  best  time  I  could  get — and  I  believe 
with  all  the  mess  it's  made  for  me  it's  no  worse  now 
than  standing  at  that  kitchen  sink  every  night  would 
have  been.  It  was  something  like  living,  running 
with  those  boys.  They  knew  how  to  enjoy  things. 
Guinevere  Peters  let  the  boys  get  fresh  with  her, 
but  I  didn't  at  first.  And  Guinevere  said  to  me, 
"  See  here,  Priscilla,  this  is  no  place  for  a  Puritan 
maid,  and  these  are  regular  fellers — and  they've  got 
the  kale  and  are  willing  to  part  with  it,  but  they  don't 
take  us  girls  joy-riding  just  because  they  think  we 
need  the  fresh  air."  And  they  all  laughed  and  said 
that  Guin  was  a  peach  and  had  the  right  idea.  They 
got  to  drinking  more  and  more  and  I  took  a  little 
now  and  then  to  be  a  good  fellow.  We  wound  up 
at  Bender's  again  and  I  was  feeling  gay  and  sang 
a  few  songs  and  after  we'd  danced  awhile,  Guin 
went  off  with  one  of  the  boys  and  I  slipped  away 
from  the  crowd  and  got  home. 

FILSON.    But  you  went  back  again? 

ELLEN.  Yes,  sir.  I  kept  going  back — you  see, 
Bender  liked  the  way  I  sang  and  he  gave  me  em 
ployment  to  sing.  Coakley  was  always  hanging 
around  there,  and  he  kept  after  me,  and  it  hap 
pened — as  I  told  before. 

FILSON.  I'm  done  with  this  witness.  You  may 
stand  down. 


COMMON  CLAY  69 


f  ELLEN,  relieved,  steps  down  from  the  witness  chair 
and  takes  her*seat  on  down  side  of  YATES.) 

YATES.  (Rising)  May  it  please  your  Honor,  I 
Vvant  to  put  Mrs.  Neal  on  the  stand  to  testify  as  to 
the  girl's  age  at  the  time  of  the  commission  of  the 
offence.  We  will  prove  by  this  witness  that  her 
daughter  was  then  and  is  still  under  the  age  men 
tioned  in  the  statute.  Incidentally  we  will,  by  this 
witness,  refute  some  of  the  insinuations  of  improper 
bringing  up  which  the  defense  has  attempted  to  cast 
upon  the  complainant.  Call  Mrs  Neal — 

(The  BAILIFF  walks  out,  calling  "  Mrs.  Neal!  Mrs. 
Neal!  Mrs.  Neal!"  MRS.  NEAL  enters,  as 
sisted  by  the  BAILIFF.  She  is  a  little,  frail 
ivoman,  timid  and  frightened  and  speaks  in  a 
low  tremulous  voice.  She  wears  a  very  small 
bonnet,  sitting  high  on  her  head,  ivith  strings 
from  it  tied  under  her  chin,  and  a  shazvl  of 
Persian  design,  rather  tattered.  She  carries  a 
round,  black  fan,  which  folds  into  a  stick,  and 
this  she  folds  and  unfolds  nervously,  now  and 
then  fanning  herself.  She  wears  gloves  which 
cover  only  her  hands,  and  her  arms  are  bare 
from  the  elbow.  Her  whole  appearance  sug 
gests  respectable  poverty,  and  she  seems  to 
have  put  on  everything  she  had  in  which  to 
come  to  Court.  As  she  seats  herself  the 
BAILIFF  speaks  to  her.) 

BAILIFF.  Hold  up  your  right  hand.  (She  holds 
up  the  left  hand  and  it  is  seen  to  tremble)  Your 
right  hand — that's  your  left  one. 


70  COMMON  CLAY 

(Transferring  her  fan  to  her  left  hand,  she  holds  up 
her  right.  The  clerk  holds  a  Bible  upon  which 
she  places  her  left  hand.) 

CLERK.  (In  sing-song  tone,  holding  up  his  right 
hand)  Do  you  solemnly  swear  that  the  evidence 
you  are  now  about  to  give  shall  be  the  truth,  the 
whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth — so  help 
you  God? 

(In  a  dazed  way,  the  little  woman  nods  assent.) 

BAILIFF.    Answer  "  I  do  ". 

MRS.  NEAL.  I  do.  (Whereat  she  trembles  with 
responsibility) 

YATES.  (Reassuringly)  Now,  Mrs.  Neal,  I'm 
going  to  ask  you  a  few  questions.  Be  good  enough 
to  speak  clearly. 

MRS.  NEAL.    Yes,  sir,  I  want  to  do  right,  sir. 

YATES.  Mrs.  Neal,  how  old  was  Ellen  Neal  at 
the  time  of  the  commission  of  this  offense  by  this 
defendant? 

MRS.  NEAL.  (Hopelessly  confused)  I  don't 
know  what  you  mean,  sir. 

YATES.  Ah,  yes — I  see — well,  Mrs.  Neal,  how 
old  is  Ellen  now? 

MRS.  NEAL.     She's  twenty  years  old. 

YATES.  That  made  her  eighteen  years  old  at  the 
time  of  which  we  were  speaking — two  years  ago. 

MRS.  NEAL.  (Counting  her  fingers,  doubtfully 
perplexed)  Yes,  sir.  (Then  realizing — spontan 
eously  childlike)  Oh,  yes,  sir — that's  it,  sir — right 
you  are — two  from  twenty  is  eighteen. 

YATES.  And  now,  Mrs.  Neal,  will  you  tell  the 
court  what  you  know  about  Ellen's  character? 

FILSON.  (Rising)  I  object,  your  Honor.  Char 
acter  evidence  is  not  admissible. 

JUDGE.      But   this    is    only   an    examining   trial, 


COMMON  CLAY  71 

Judge  Filson.  I'll  allow  as  much  latitude  as  neces 
sary.  Our  rules  of  evidence  are  not  so  narrow  as 
those  of  the  higher  court,  which  may  make  final 
disposition.  Before  I  hold,  or  decline  to  hold,  this 
defendant  to  the  Grand  Jury,  I  want  to  know  the 
matter  from  all  its  angles.  I  overrule  the  objection. 
(Directly  to  MRS.  NEAL,  in  a  kindly  tone.  FILSON 
sits)  That  mea»s  that  you  must  tell  me  all  you 
know  about  the  girl's  behavior. 

MRS.  NEAL.  Well,  sir,  I  don't  know  as  I  can  say 
anything  against  her  up  to  the  time  she  got  to  run 
ning  to  that  dance-hall.  I  raised  her  straight  up 
from  a  baby  in  the  word  of  God — we  were  church- 
goin'  people,  your  Honor,  both  Neal  and  me.  The 
girl  was  a  good  child,  but  terrible  full  of  fun — and 
she  could  sing  somethin'  wonderful.  She  was  awful 
smart  in  school  and  you  could  hardly  get  her  to 
stop 

YATES.  Did  you  want  her  to  stop  school — and 
she  wouldn't? 

MRS.  NEAL.  Yes,  sir,  she  wasn't  like  other 
children  that  way.  She  wanted  to  go  and  she  spoke 
the  English  language  like  you  read  it  in  a  book — 
she  got  more  education  than  she  could  stand.  And 
Neal  he  says  to  me  "  That  child's  gittin'  to  know 
too  much."  You  see,  your  Honor,  she  was  gittin' 
so  that  people  like  she  was  thrown  with  didn't  in 
terest  her — she  knew  more  than  they  did,  and  she 
got  to  talkin'  about  risin'  up  to  higher  things.  We 
tried  to  get  her  interested  in  a  young  feller  who  was 
a  brakeman  on  the  railroad — a  steady,  good  boy 
who  never  touched  a  drop  of  drink,  but  she  wanted 
to  go  with  educated  fellers — and  that's  where  she 
went  wrong,  your  Honor.  It's  put  me  down  on 
education — except  for  rich  people.  It  only  makes 
the  poor  dissatisfied  with  the  place  that  the 
Almighty  put  'em  in.  She  was  as  good  a  girl  as  I 
know — until  we  educated  her. 


72  COMMON  CLAY 

YATES.  That's  all  for  the  prosecution.  Do  you 
wish  to  take  the  witness,  Judge  Filson? 

FILSON.  I  do,  indeed.  Mrs.  Neal,  you  have 
been  ingeniously  ingenuous,  haven't  you. 

MRS.  NEAL.    I  hope  so,  sir — I  always  try  to  be. 

(The  JUDGE  and  YATES  look  at  FILSON  and  laugh.) 

YATES.  (Rising)  Your  Honor,  I  was  about  to 
object  to  Judge  Fi!  son's  insinuating  attempt  to  dis 
credit  the  witness  had  not  her  own  answer  been 
so  completely  convincing  of  her  honesty. 

FILSON.  (Flaring  up)  I  can  cross-examine  with 
out  your  assistance,  sir.  Mrs.  Neal,  don't  you  think 
that  any  other  mother  would  say  as  much  as  she 
could  on  the  witness  stand — for  her  daughter? 

MRS.  NEAL.    I  guess  so,  sir. 

FILSON.  Then  as  Ellen's  mother,  you'll  naturally 
speak  in  her  favor  here,  won't  you?  (MRS.  NEAL 
shows  agitation)  Now  I'm  not  meaning  to  harass 
you,  madam — I'm  simply  trying  to  show  that  what 
you  say  may  be  perfectly  naturally  in  favor  of 
your  own  daughter. 

MRS.  NEAL.  But  sir—  (She  hesitates)  Oh,  I 
want  to  speak  the  truth,  sir,  as  a  Christian  woman 
— I  do,  sir 

FILSON.     I'm  not  impeaching  your  veracity 

MRS.  NEAL.     What's  that,  sir? 

FILSON.  I'm  not  doubting  your  truthfulness, 
Mrs.  Neal — I  am  only  asking  you  to  admit  that, 
being  Ellen  Neal'  s  mother,  you're  not  so  likely  to  go 
out  of  your  way  to  say  anything  against  your  own 
child. 

MRS.  NEAL.     But  you  don't  understand,  sir. 

FILSON.  (Puzzled)  What's  that — don't  under 
stand  what?  (Pauses  as  if  he  may  have  made 
a  mistake)  I  understand  that  you  are  this  girl's 
mother — aren't  you? 


COMMON  CLAY  73 

MRS.  NEAL.  (Agitated)  Well — eer — I  never 
said  here  that  I  was  her  mother,  sir. 

(ELLEN  starts  a  little,  and  looks  puzzled  at  MRS. 
NEAL.) 

FILSON.    Eh,  how's  that?     (Pauses)    Well,  are 
you  or  not  the  mother  of  Ellen  Neal? 
MRS.  NEAL.    I  am",  sir — in  a  way,  sir. 

(ELLEN  is  dumfounded;  everyone  seems  puzzled, 
and  FILSON  evinces  the  manner  of  one  who 
has  stumbled  on  an  unexpected  treasure.) 

FILSON.  In  a  way — you're  her  mother — what 
do  you  mean  by  that? 

MRS.  NEAL.  I  mean  that  I'm  the  same  as  a 
mother  to  her. 

FILSON.    But  she  isn't  really  your  daughter? 

(ELLEN  leans  forward  hanging  on  the  woman's 
words.  Their  eyes  meet  and  the  witness  is  in 
greater  agitation.) 

MRS.  NEAL.    You  mustn't  ask  me  that,  lawyer. 

YATES.     (Rising)     I  object,  your  Honor 

JUDGE.  The  defense  has  a  right  to  show  the 
relationship  between  the  prosecuting  witness  and 
her  character  witness.  Objection  overruled! 

FILSON.  That  means,  Madam,  that  you  must 
answer  my  question. 

MRS.  NEAL.  But  I  don't  feel  like  I  ought  to, 
sir — honest  I  don't = 

FILSON.  But  you  are  not  the  judge  of  what  you 
ought  to  do  here 

MRS.  NEAL.  (Picking  up  spirit)  I  am  thatf 
lawyer — as  I'm  a:  Christian  woman. 

FILSON.       (Catching     an     inspiration — craftily) 


74  COMMON  CLAY 

But  didn't  you  just  now  hold  up  your  right  hand — 
with  your  other  hand  on  the  Bible — as  a  Christian 
woman — (FiLSON  is  holding  up  his  right  hand  and 
working  his  voice  up  to  an  impressive  climax)  and 
swear  that  you  were  going  to  tell  the  truth — the 
whole  truth — and  nothing  but  the  truth — so  help  you 
God? 

MRS.  NEAL.  (Tremendously  moved  and  im 
pressed  by  the  lawyer's  manner  and  words)  Yes, 
sir,  yes,  sir.  I  know  I  did,  sir — I  didn't  think  about 
it  in  that  way — not  in  that  way,  sir.  But  you're 
right,  lawyer — oh,  you're  a  sharp  one,  lawyer — I've 
got  to  say  you're  right — well  then,  I'll  answer  the 
question  and  God  can  decide  whether  I'm  right  or 
wrong — (She  braces  herself  and  she  and  ELLEN 
look  at  each  other,  ELLEN  half  rising  from  her  seat 
and  leaning  toward  the  witness)  I  ain't  the  real 
mother  of  that  grl. 

ELLEN.  (Springing  up)  She  is,  too — she  is,  I  tell 
you — she's  the  first  face  I  remember — (BAILIFF 
tries  to  quiet  ELLEN,  but  she  breaks  away  from 
him)  Now  she's  going  back  on  me  because  I'm  in 
bad. 

(The  BAILIFF  gets  ELLEN  back  to  her  seat  where 
she  sits,  her  face  hid  in  her  handkerchief,  mak 
ing  no  sound,  but  her  body  shaking  with  her 
efforts  to  stifle  her  feelings.  MRS.  NEAL  is 
agitated  and  distressed.  FILSON  questions  her 
in  a  very  sympathetic  tone.) 

FILSON.  Mrs.  Neal,  since  you  say  you  are  not 
the  mother  of  the  girl  who  bears  your  name,  will 
you  tell  us  how  you  came  to  rear  her — and  whose 
daughter  she  is? 

MRS.  NEAL.  (Is  again  visibly  perturbed)  I 
can't  tell  you ! 

FILSON.    Do  you  mean  that  you  don't  know? 


COMMON  CLAY  75 

MRS.  NEAL.    Not  that — not  exactly  that,  sir? 

FILSON.    Is  she  your  husband's  daughter? 

MRS.  NEAL.  Oh,  no,  sir — how  can  you  ask  that, 
sir?  My  husband  was  always  a  true  man. 

YATES.  (Rising)  May  it  please  the  court,  I 
object  to  this  line  of  examination.  The  statute  de 
fines  the  crime — if  this  man  induced  a  girl  under 
twenty-one  to  enter  such  a  house  as  the  one  in  ques 
tion,  he  should  be  held  to  the  Grand  Jury  for  its 
action — no  matter  whose  daughter  she  was.  That 
has  no  bearing  on  the  case. 

FILSON.  (Rising)  I  beg  to  differ  with  you,  sir. 
(To  the  court,  standing)  Your  Honor  has  just 
said  that  you  want  the  greatest  latitude  in  the  evi 
dence — as  is  always  the  case  in  examining  trials. 
And  I  say  that  it  does  matter  whose  daughter  this 
girl  was  or  is.  It  has  a  bearing  on  the  case.  Her 
very  birth  and  parentage  are  shrouded  in  mystery — • 
and  can  your  Honor  reasonably  expect  as  much  of 
bad  stock  as  of  good?  (At  this  last  line  the  woman 
shows  agitation)  And  if  the  child  does  not  bear 
the  name  of  her  father  and  an  explanation  of  this 
is  avoided,  does  it  not  cast  suspicion 

JUDGE.  (YATES  and  FILSON  sit)  Let  me  ask 
the  witness  a  question.  (He  leans  toward  the 
agitated  witness  and  speaks  in  kindly  tones)  Mrs. 
Neal,  have  you  any  good  reason  for  declining  to 
tell  who  this  girl's  father  and  mother  were? 

MRS.  NEAL.    I  don't  know  who  they  were — that 

JUDGE.    Do  you  know  who  either  of  them  was? 

MRS.  NEAL.     I  knew  her  mother. 

JUDGE.  And  have  a  good  reason  for  not  telling 
who  she  was? 

MRS.  NEAL.  I  promised  not  to — and  I've  kept 
my  word  so  far — that  (Indicating  ELLEN)  child 
herself  thought  up  until  this  time  that  I  was  her 
mother.  (The  two  women  look  at  each  other  and 


76  COMMON  CLAY 

both  put  their  handkerchiefs  to  their  eyes  as  realiza* 
tion  shows  on  ELLEN'S  features)  As  I'm  a  Christ 
ian  I've  tried  to  be  a  mother  to  her.  (She  breaks, 
but  ELLEN  controls  herself.  The  onlookers  bend 
forzvard  and  there  is  a  lull.  FILSON  rises  and 
speaks  in  gentle  tones) 

FILSON.  May  it  please  the  court,  I  will  not  press 
this  good  woman  any  further.  In  desiring  to  get 
at  the  whole  truth  I  have  been  perhaps  too  vigorous 
in  my  examination.  (To  witness)  I  regret  that 
you  are  not  the  mother  of  this  girl — had  you  been, 
her  career  would  have  been  different,  I  am  sure. 
(To  the  court)  But,  your  Honor,  you  can't  expect 
much  from  those  who  come  of  a  bad  lot. 

(The  witness,  whose  face  has  been  buried  in  her 
handkerchief,  starts  up,  and  turns  a  fierce  gaze 
to  the  lawyer,  pointing  her  finger  at  him  and 
dropping  handkerchief  in  so  doing.) 

MRS.  NEAL.  (Excitedly  angry)  She  didn't 
come  of  no  bad  lot,  she  didn't.  (Pause)  Some 
might  have  called  her  mother  a  bad  one,  but  her 
father  was  one  of  the  biggest  men  in  this  town. 

FILSON.  Then  he  should  be  with  her  now — who 
was  he? 

MRS.  NEAL.  (Pauses)  Judge,  your  Honor,  I 
don't  know  who  he  was — nobody  knows — he  don't 
even  know  himself. 

FILSON.     What? 

MRS.  NEAL.  It  was  this  way — (Pauses  thought 
fully)  I'm  a-goin'  to  tell  it  all — I  promised  her  I 
wouldn't  tell,  but  I  swore  right  here  so  help  me 
God — (Holding  up  her  hand)  that  I'd  tell  the  whole 
truth,  and  I'm  a  Christian  woman  and  I  believe  it's 
better  to  fear  the  wrath  of  a  living  God  than  to 
keep  your  promise  to  a  dead  woman.  It's  this 
way,  your  Honor.  When  that  girl  was  born  I  was 


COMMON  CLAY  77 

the  only  person  with  her  mother.  And  the  mother 
gave  me  all  her  money,  about  five  hundred  dollars, 
and  ast  me  please  for  God's  sake  to  adopt  the  baby 
and  raise  it  so  that  nobody  would  ever  know  who 
its  mother  was.  "  I  want  that  kid  to  have  a  chance," 
she  says.  And  she  told  me  that  the  father  was  a 
big  man,  a  smart  man  with  a  future,  and  that  she 
loved  him  and  didn't  want  anything  to  stand  in  his 
way.  "  If  I  tell  him  what's  happened  he'll  want  to 
marry  me,"  she  says,  "  to  set  it  right,  and  that  will 
be  the  ruin  of  him.  Nothin'  must  stand  in  his  way," 
she  said,  "  He  mustn't  even  know  that  his  child  was 
ever  born."  And  she  wouldn't  tell  me  who  he  was, 
and  I  don't  know  to  this  day,  but  she  said  I  had  to 
help  her  to  help  him,  and  I  took  the  baby  and  said 
"  I'll  help  you,  Dolly."  (She  pauses  and  FILSON 
gives  a  slight  start.  She  continues  in  a  low  tense 
voice)  And  a  few  days  later  they  found  her  body 
floating  in  the  river  below  the  city.  (  FILSON  starts 
again  and  turns  his  head  toward  the  audience  id 
avoid  those  in  the  court  room.  His  eyes  are  pensive 
and  filmy.  All  on  the  stage  bend  forward  and  hang 
on  the  woman's  words,  not  noticing  FILSON.  MRS. 
NEAL  is  affected  by  her  own  words  and  the  recol 
lections  which  they  bring  to  her,  and  she  loses  her- 
self  in  the  drama  which  has  suddenly  come  into  her 
work-a-day  life.  She  makes  a  long  pause,  during 
which  her  lips  move  but  say  nothing,  then  she  speaks 
very  slowly  and  distinctly)  She  was  a  woman  of 
the  town  and  she  didn't  want  to  stand  in  that  man's 
way,  she  didn't  want  him  or  the  child  to  stand  in 
each  other's  way.  (Addressing  herself  to  FILSON, 
who  does  not  look  at  her)  But  you  can't  say, 
lawyer,  that  that  child  came  of  any  bad  lot — men 
like  you  might  call  her  mother  bad,  but  her  father 
was  one  of  the  biggest  men  in  this  town,  (She 
pauses  a  moment)  so  Dolly  said,  and  so  I  believe, 
but  that  ain't  saying  that  he'll  be  any  bigger  or  bet- 


78  COMMON  CLAY 

ter  than  Dolly  Montrose  in  the  Kingdom  Come, 
where  the  last  shall  be  first  and  the  first  shall  be 
last. 

(FILSON  stares  dim-eyed  and  blankly  in  front  of 
him,  making  no  sound.  He  faces  audience. 
Interest  of  those  in  stage  centers  on  the  wit 
ness  and  on  ELLEN.) 

YATES.  (After  a  pause)  If  Judge  Filson  has 
no  further  questions  for  the  witness,  your  Honor, 
the  prosecution  rests  its  case  here.  (YATES  looks 
at  FILSON  for  an  answer) 

(FILSON'S  hands  grip  the  arms  of  his  chair,  as  he 
realizes  that  he  must  act,  and  he  half  rises 
as  he  speaks.) 

FILSON.  May  it  please  the  court — (He  sinks  back 
in  his  chair  quietly,  and  puts  his  hand  to  his  head. 
The  BAILIFF  pours  a  glass  of  water  and  hastens  to 
him.  FILSON  drinks,  and  puts  down  the  glass  on 
table  with  trembling  hands.  Movement  in  crowd) 
Ah,  thank  you. 

JUDGE.     Are  you  ill,  Judge  Filson? 

FILSON.  I  think  I'm  all  right  now,  your  honor, 
it  was  just — eer — just  the  bad  air.  (Fanning  him 
self  with  handkerchief) 

YATES.  (Sarcastically)  Judge  Filson  dwells  on 
the  heights — where  the  air  is  pure. 

FILSON.  (Smiling)  It  isn't  that,  your  Honor, 
but  I'd  like  a  breathing  spell — it  may  be  that  I  won't 
put  my  client  on  the  stand — perhaps  we  could 
adjourn  until  afternoon — I'd  like  time -• 

(ELLEN,  who  has  pulled  herself  together  rises  and 
checks  FILSON  by  holding  up  her  hand.  The 
JUDGE  on  the  bench  looks  at  her  with  surprise. 


COMMON  CLAY  79 

and  the  eyes  of  the  crowd  are  centered  on  her. 
She  holds  her  position  for  a  moment  and  speaks 
in  calm  voice.) 

ELLEN.  There's  no  use  in  taking  any  more  time 
on  this — Pm  going  to  end  it  here  and  now.  (Every 
one  is  excitedly  bending  forward  and  the  BAILIFF 
starts  toward  ELLEN,  but  the  JUDGE  motions  him 
back  with  a  wave  of  his  gavel.  ELLEN  addresses 
the  court  directly)  Your  Honor,  I  don't  know 
much  about  the  law,  but  I've  learned  enough  about 
life  in  the  last  two  minutes  to  stand  up  here  and 
ask  you  to  let  that  man — (Indicating  COAKLEY) 
go  free.  (He  rises)  There's  nothing  in  life  for 
either  of  us  as  things  are.  We  two  are  just  a  couple 
of  strays — and  we've  been  fighting  each  other  when 
there's  not  even  a  bone  to  fight  over.  It's  not  going 
to  make  a  better  woman  out  of  me  to  send  him  to 
jail,  and  it's  not  going  to  make  a  better  man  of 
him,  and  it's  not  going  to  keep  anybody  else  from 
doing  as  we  did. 

(Both  FILSON  and  YATES  jump  up  and  point  their, 
fingers  at  the  JUDGE.) 

FILSON.    May  it  please  the  court 

YATES.    Your  Honor,  I 

JUDGE.  Pardon  me,  gentlemen,  but  I  don't  be 
lieve  we  need  the  advice  of  lawyers  any  further  in 
the  case  at  bar.  This  girl  has  learned  from  her 
own  life 

ELLEN.  May  it  please  your  Honor,  I've  learned 
from  my  mother's  life.  When  she  went  down  she 
didn't  drag  anybody  dozvn  with  her,  and  when  the 
man  that  was  my  father  went  up,  he  didn't  take 
anybody  up  with  him.  I  want  to  be  as  she  was, 
your  Honor.  (Her  voice  quavers  just  a  little,  but 
her  delivery  is  not  oratorical)  She  wasn't  straight, 


80  COMMON  CLAY 

but  my,  she  was  square.  (She  continues  to  stand 
and  look  out  over  the  audience  while  a  tear  glistens 
in  her  eye.  FILSON  bows  his  head.  COAKLEY  and 
ELLEN  put  handkerchiefs  to  their  eyes.  The 
JUDGE  writes  on  his  docket,  and  as  his  pen  scratches 
he  pronounces  his  judgment) 

JUDGE.  Arthur  Coakley — dismissed — on  the 
motion  of  the  prosecuting  witness.  (He  blots  the 
docket,  COAKLEY  rises  and  silently  takes  the  girl's 
hand  and  presses  it.  Then  he  walks  out  and  makes 
his  exit  at  door  L.)  Mr.  Clerk,  call  the  next  case. 

CLERK.  This  is  the  last  case  on  to-day's  docket, 
your  Honor. 

JUDGE.  (Suppressing  his  emotion)  Uum — (He 
looks  at  his  docket)  Yes,  so  it  is.  (He  raps  with 
his  gavel)  Court  is  adjourned  until  to-morrow 
morning  at  nine  o'clock.  (The  JUDGE  closes  his 
docket  and  rises.  He  and  officials  exit  upper  right, 
the  CLERK  carrying  his  docket  with  him.  YATES 
starts  toward  ELLEN  to  help  her  with  her  coat  and 
FILSON  nervously  calls  him  aside  and  in  pantomime 
indicates  that  he  is  to  leave  ELLEN  and  to  escort 
MRS.  NEAL  away,  which  YATES  does.  ELLEN  and 
MRS.  NEAL  look  at  one  another  indecisively  and 
then  rush  into  one  another's  arms.  YATES  leads 
MRS.  NEAL  away  and  they  exit  left.  ELLEN  stands 
left  and  looks  through  the  window  at  the  prison 
walls  in  rear.  FILSON  watches  ELLEN  anxiously 
waiting  his  chance  to  speak  to  her  alone.  When 
they  are  left  alone  he  approaches  her.  She  starts 
with  surprise  as  he  speaks) 

FILSON.  I  want  to  talk  with  you — er — eer — 
Ellen. 

ELLEN.  Oh,  I  didn't  know  you  were  here — I — 
eer — was  thinking  of  the  prisoners  behind  those 
walls.  (Indicating  walls) 

FILSON.  Yes — eer — some  persons  lead  very  hard 
lives,  Ellen. 


COMMON  CLAY  8f 

ELLEN.  They  had  me  in  there  once.  (Laughs 
bitterly)  It's  a  great  experience  for  a  girl — sort 
of  finishing  school.  I  guess  it  has  finished  me. 

FILSON.    Let  us  hope  not. 

ELLEN.     Why  are  you  so  interested  all  at  once? 

FILSON.     Some  day  you  will  know. 

ELLEN.  (Cynically)  Maybe  I  do  now.  (In 
sinuating)  That's  the  way  they  all  talk. 

FILSON.  (Horrified)  Child,  have  you  no  faith 
in  human  nature?  (She  smiles  cynically  again) 
You're  hard  and  cynical. 

ELLEN.  It's  what  we're  up  against  that  makes 
us  what  we  are. 

FILSON.  I  know — I  know — You  have  not  had 
your  chance — I  want  to  help  you  to  be  another 
woman.  (ELLEN  puts  her  hand  on  her  hips  and 
looks  at  him  mockingly)  Really  I  do.  Listen  to 
me,  Ellen.  Can  you  imagine  yourself  as  another 
woman?  You,  and  yet  someone  else?  (His  'voice 
is  low  and  pleading.  She  softens  a  bit  and  looks 
absently  off  as  she  talks) 

ELLEN.  Yes,  I  have  done  that  a  thousand  times — 
day-dreamed  that  I  was  another  girl.  Why,  I've 
even  given  her  another  name — she's  Eleanor  Gail. 
The  woman  I  would  have  been  if  I  could  have 
made  myself — if  I  could  have  had  the  chance  and 
the  money  that  your  kind  of  women  have.  That 
girl — my  other  self — is  loved  and  respected  by  men 
who  make  a  plaything  of  Ellen  Neal — and  she  is 
good,  and  she  is  wanted  in  places  where  Ellen  can 
never  enter — but  she  isn't  ashamed  of  Ellen  Neal — 
my  other  self,  because,  having  been  Ellen,  she  can 
remember — and  understand. 

FILSON.  I  want  to  make  you  into  that  other 
woman.  (He  pauses  and  catches  her  interest)  You 
have  the  natural  gifts  and  talents.  I  want  to  give 
you  the  money  and  opportunity  to  develop  them. 
Listen,  I  am  going  to  see  that  Mr.  Fullerton  pro- 


82  COMMON  CLAY 

vides  for  your  child — and  finds  a  good  home — and 
I  want  you  to  go  to  New  York. 

ELLEN.    To  New  York  ! 

FILSON.  Yes,  and  when  you  get  there  you  are  to 
buy  all  the  beautiful  clothes  that  the  other  girl — 
your  other  self — will  need — and  I'll  come  a  day  or 
two  later  and  join  you — (She  regards  him  quiz 
zically)  and  we  will  plan  your  studies. 

ELLEN.  Plan  my  studies !  Well,  aren't  you  the 
slick  old  citizen. 

FILSON.  What!  Why,  child,  you  don't  under 
stand  ! 

ELLEN.  Oh,  yes  I  do.  You  think  you'll  date 
me  up  for  a  trip  to  New  York. 

FILSON.  (Recoiling  in  horror)  No — no — no — 
Listen  to  me.  (Pauses)  I  must  tell  you  something 
that  I  meant  to  tell  you  later.  Ellen,  I  am  your 
father. 

ELLEN.  (Looks  at  him  in  amazement,  then 
bursts  into  ringing,  mocking  laugh)  Well,  that's 
the  best  one  I  ever  heard. 

FILSON.     You  don't  believe  me? 

ELLEN.  Oh,  you  ought  not  to  try  that  on  me. 
I've  just  been  through  with  it.  If  you  were  my 
father  you  would  be  running  away  from  me  just  as 
Hugh  Fullerton  ran  from  his  child.  You  are  tell 
ing  me  that  just  to  get  me  to  meet  you  in  New  York. 

( FILSON  is  dumfounded,  and  then  he  thinks  of  the 
note  that  DOLLY  MONTROSE  wrote  him.  He 
clutches  the  outside  of  his  coat  to  feel  if  his 
pocket-book  is  there,  and  quickly  takes  it  out 
and  unfolds  the  letter.  Her  interest  is  aroused 
by  his  pantomime.) 

FILSON.  Here  is  a  note  that  will  prove  it.  (He 
hands  her  the  note  and  she  takes  it  curiously  and 
reads  aloud  each  word  haltingly,  her  face  betraying 


COMMON  CLAY  83 

emotion  and  surprise  as  the  truth  is  driven 
home ) 

ELLEN.  (Reading  aloud)  "When  you  get  this 
note,  Sam,  I'll  be  dead.  I  won't  pull  you  down  with 
me,  and  I  hope  you  will  take  the  chance  I  am  giving 
you  to  go  on  up.  Don't  act  like  a  fool  and  give  the 
thing  away,  for  it  will  be  too  late  to  do  me  any 
good.  I  want  to  repay  you  for  wanting  to  be 
straight  with  me,  and  this  is  the  best  way  I  know 
how.  Good-bye,  Dolly  Montrose.  /  want  you  to 
go  to  the  top."  (Looking  at  FILSON,  both  greatly 
moved)  So,  you  are  the  man? 

FILSON.  Yes,  Ellen,  the  man  who  helped  to 
bring  you  into  the  world 

ELLEN.  And  then  proved  in  court  that  I  came  of 
a  bad  lot. 

FILSON.  We  are  all  of  the  same  common  clay. 
(He  advances  toward  her  and  holds  her  in  his  arms, 
reverently  stroking  her  forehead)  Oh,  my  dear, 
my  dear.  I  shall  help  you  and  you  shall  help  me. 
You  shall  have  what  other  women  have,  you  shall 
be  as  they  are. 

ELLEN.  (Looking  up,  fervently)  And  will  you 
be  proud  of  me  when  I  am  no  longer  Ellen  Neal — 
When  I  am  Ellen  Filson? 

FILSON.  (Proudly)  I  mean  to  make  the  whole 
country  proud  of  you — (He  drops  his  voice  to  a  con 
versational  tone)  but  you  mustn't  take  my  name. 

ELLEN.  (Surprised,  and  drawing  azvay  from 
him)  So  you're  ashamed  of  me,  too — as  you  were 
of  my  mother. 

FILSON.  I  asked  your  mother  to  marry  me.  She 
wouldn't  do  it.  I  was  young  then.  But  she  knew 
the  ways  of  the  world  and  how  useless  it  is  to  go 
against  them.  So  do  I  now.  (Pauses)  I  want  to 
be  of  real  help  to  you  without  being  a  hindrance  at 
all.  We  must  keep  our  secret — it's  the  only  way. 

ELLEN.    If  you  want  to  do  anything  for  me  you 


84  COMMON  CLAY 

can't  go  snooping  around  on  the  sly  about  it. 
(Passionately)  I  won't  be  shoved  off  into  dark 
corners.  I'm  tired  of  having  everybody  ashamed 
of  me  when  they  are  all  doing  as  I've  done.  The 
big  people  are  no  better  than  the  other  ones — and 
I'm  going  back  to  the  streets.  (She  starts  toward  the 
door  hastily.  As  she  opens  it,  FILSON,  his  face 
writhing  in  pain,  cries  her  name} 

FILSON.  Ellen!  Ellen!  (He  sways  slightly  and 
puts  his  hand  on  railing  for  support.  He  drops  his 
head  and  his  lips  move  without  speech.  ELLEN 
pauses  and  looks  at  him.  Slowly  she  closes  the  door 
and  stands,  hand  on  knob,  thinking) 

ELLEN.  I — I  can't  leave  you  if  it  hurts  you  that 
much.  (Pauses)  I'll  do  as  you  say.  (Pauses) 
Maybe  you're  right — (Pauses  and  takes  hand  off 
door-knob)  But  there's  something  bigger  than  right 
or  wrong — (Starts  toward  him)  it's  helping  one 
another.  (She  falls  in  his  arms  and  clutches  his 
shoulder.  He  looks  upward,  his  lips  move,  and  he 
caresses  her) 

Curtain 


ACT  IV 

SCENE  :  The  setting  is  the  same  as  that  for  ACT  I — 
the  time,  a  little  more  than  ten  years  later  than 
that  of  the  first  act.  There  are  slight  altera 
tions  in  the  furniture  to  indicate  the  changes  of 
time.  The  Christmas  holly  and  mistletoe  used 
for  decoration  in  ACT  I  do  not  now  appear. 

Before  the  rise  of  the  curtain  a  modern  piece 
of  dance  music  is  heard  off-stage  behind  cur 
tain.  The  music  continues  and  no  one  is  on 
stage,  but  voices  and  laughter  are  now  and 


COMMON  CLAY  85 

then  heard  from  upstairs  mingled  with  the 
music.  The  door-bell  rings  and  a  young  man 
servant  {not  EDWARDS  of  the  first  act)  passes 
through  hallway,  going  right  to  open  the  front 
door.  The  door  is  heard  to  open  and  FILSON 
enters  right  followed  by  servant,  who  takes  his 
hat  and  coat.  FULLER/TON  enters  on  stairway 
and  comes  downstairs.  He  is  deeply  concerned, 
looking  about  as  if  expecting  someone,  sees 
FILSON  and  comes  quickly  toward  him.  SER- 
•vant  exits  left  hallwayt  carrying  FILSON'S  hat 
and  coat. 

FULLERTON.  Sam,  I've  been  waiting  for  you! 
What  makes  you  so  late? 

FILSON.    I  went  to  the  Club  after  the  Opera. 

FULLERTON.  (Anxiously,  as  he  takes  FILSON'S 
arm  and  guides  him  into  library)  I'm  in  trouble 
again!  It's  my  boy! 

FILSON.  He  isn't  mixed  up  with  another  woman, 
is  he? 

FULLERTON.    It's  the  same  woman. 

FILSON.  (Smiling,  aside)  After  all  these  years. 
(Pause)  Perhaps  he's  in  love  with  her?  (Looks 
nt  FULLERTON  to  note  effect  of  this  speech) 

Music  stops.) 

FULLERTON.    She  is  upstairs — now. 

FILSON.  (Slyly)  What's  she  doing,  serving  the 
ices? 

FULLERTON.  (Wringing  his  hands)  No,  she's 
the  guest  of  honor!  We've  invited  everybody 
worth  while  to  meet  her — 

FILSON.  Mrs.  Fullerton  is  entertaining  her  house 
maid.  (  FILSON  smiles,  concealing  smile  from  FULL 
ERTON  and  sitting  right  of  table.  FULLERTON  sits 
left  of  table) 


86  COMMON  CLAY 

FULLERTON.  No,  no,  she's  in  the  opera  now — a 
celebrity.  Hugh  had  been  talking  of  her  and  when 
her  company  came  to  town  he  said  he  would  like 
for  us  to  meet  her.  My  wife,  is  devoted  to  the 
Opera,  so  we  were  glad  to  have  her — she's  quite 
well  known.  (FILSON  and  FULLERTON  exchange 
nods)  But  she  hadn't  been  here  ten  minutes  before 
my  wife  identified  her  as  that  Neal  woman.  She 
has  another  name — now — Eleanor  Gale — Lord 
knows  what  her  name  will  be  next. 

FILSON.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Hugh  Fullerton.  (He 
looks  at  FULLERTON  without  smiling  to  note  effect 
of  this  speech) 

FULLERTON.  Oh,  Sam,  why  will  you  joke  about 
everything  ? 

FILSON.  I'm  not  joking — exactly — it's  some 
thing  I  suggested  to  you  one  day  in  my  office.  Re 
member  ? 

FULLERTON.  Perish  the  thought!  The  boy  is  in 
her  clutches — I  want  you  to  help  me  again. 

FILSON.  But  Hugh  is  no  longer  a  boy.  He's  a 
capable,  successful  man  past  thirty.  He  knows  his 
own  mind. 

FULLERTON.  No  man  knows  his  own  mind  when 
a  woman  takes  it.  (Pauses  and  grows  explosive) 
She  ought  to  be  put  out  of  this  house. 

FILSON.  (Smiling)  Well,  you  can  hardly  expect 
me  to  do  that  for  you — I'm  a  lawyer,  not  a  police 
man.  (Pauses  and  grows  serious)  Dick,  why  don't 
you  let  matters  take  their  course? 

FULLERTON.  Not  if  I  can  help  it — I  think  my  boy 
means  to  marry  that  woman. 

FILSON.  Did  you  ever  stop  to  consider  that  per 
haps  she  is  the  mother  of  his  child? 

FULLERTON.  (After  a  pause,  in  which  he  eyes 
FILSON  rather  hostilely)  That  was  all  legally 
settled — years  ago. 

FILSON.      Yes,    but    only    legally    settled    then. 


COMMON  CLAY  87 

(FILSON  faces  FULLERTON  as  one  who  is  ready  to 
state  a  case  and  fight  for  it.  FULLERTON  looks  at, 
him  in  blank  astonishment) 

FULLERTON.    What  do  you  mean? 

FILSON.  I  mean  that  the  matter  was  never  settled 
as  it  should  have  been. 

FULLERTON.    You  were  my  lawyer. 

FILSON.  I  was  your  lawyer  and  did  as  you 
wished — hushed  the  matter  up  and  had  the  child 
provided  for.  Then  I  was  free  to  help  the  mother. 

FULLERTON.    You?     Sam,  you  puzzle  me. 

FILSON.  Perhaps  I  do,  Dick,  but  I've  come  here 
to-night  to  make  everything  clear.  (Pauses,  look 
ing  at  FULLERTON  across  table) 

FULLERTON.  Then  why  all  this  mystery — why 
did  you  come  here  pretending? 

FILSON.  I  wanted  to  see  what  effect  that  girl's 
presence  would  have — on  you. 

FULLERTON.  (Starting  in  surprise,  then  growing 
contemptuous)  A  very  interesting  experiment,  no 
doubt — to  you.  Another  one  of  your  Quixotic 
notions !  You  sent  that  woman  here. 

FILSON.  Yes,  Dick,  I  felt  for  that  girl,  and  after 
the  Coakley  trial — I  talked  with  her.  (Pauses,  while 
FULLERTON  gives  him  a  disapproving  look)  I 
found  that  she  had  the  right  stuff  in  her. 

FULLERTON.  You  think  all  of  them  have — (Con 
temptuously)  "the  right  stuff  in  'em." 

FILSON.  At  least  I  thought  I  would  give  her  the 
chance  to  prove  it — (Pauses)  and  she  did.  (Pauses) 
I  sent  her  to  New  York,  then  to  Europe.  I  gave  her 
all  the  opportunities  that  money  could  bring — and 
she  came  through,  Dick.  (Raps  on  the  table  for 
emphasis)  Yes,  she  came  through,  and  if  she  isn't 
good  enough  for  your  son  I'll  eat  my  hat  before  all 
your  guests.  (FULLERTON  shakes  his  head  and 
makes  a  wry  face.  FILSON  continues)  What's  the 


88  COMMON  CLAY 

matter  with  her  ?     They're  all  falling  over  their  feet 
to  meet  her,  aren't  they? 

FULLERTON.  But  they  don't  know  that  she's  the 
same  woman  who  was  here  in  this  room  ten  years 
ago — under  very  different  circumstances. 

FILSON.  Different  circumstances  are  what  make 
different  persons. 

FULLERTON.  Bah.  That  has  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  (Rises  and  stands  with  his  fingers  drumming  the 
table)  I  employed  you  to  keep  that  woman  away 
from  Hugh  and  you've  brought  them  together.  To 
let  her  work  her  game  on  him — (  FILSON  holds  up 
his  hand  in  protest.  FULLERTON  continues  heatedly) 
Oh,  I  can  see  your  hand  through  all  of  this,  Sam 
Filson.  (FULLERTON  crosses  to  rear  wall  of  library 
left  and  presses  button.  Then  turns  to  FILSON  and 
continues)  I  am  going  to  stop  it  all  right  now. 
(Manservant  enters  door  left.  FULLERTON  and 
FILSON  calm  themselves  while  he  is  on  the  stage. 
FULLERTON  turns  to  man)  Ask  Mr.  Hugh  Fuller- 
ton  to  come  downstairs  at  once. 
(The  man  bows  and  exits  up  stairway.  FULLERTON 
watches  him  closely  until  after  his  exit  and 
then  turns  to  FILSON.) 

FILSON.  (Rises)  What  are  you  going  to  do, 
Dick? 

FULLERTON.  I  am  going  to  tell  Hugh  to  get  that 
woman  out  of  this  house. 

FILSON.  (Crosses  up  toward  FULLERTON)  If  she 
goes  out  of  this  house  I  go  with  her — (The  two  men 
stare  at  one  another.  FILSON  pauses  and  speaks 
with  an  innuendo  in  his  tones)  And  a  certain 
skeleton  comes  out  of  your  family  closet. 

FULLERTON.    You  mean  you'll 

(FiLSON  nods  affirmatively.) 


COMMON  CLAY  89 

FILSON.  If  she  goes  out  everyone  will  know 
why. 

(FULLERTON  considers.) 

FULLERTON.  Sam,  I  always  thought  you  were 
my  friend. 

FILSON.  I  always  have  been,  Dick,  and  I  hope 
that  I  may  remain  so.  (He  reaches  out  and  puts 
both  hands  on  FULLERTON'S  shoulders,  looking  him 
squarely  in  the  eye) 

FULLERTON.  Then  why  play  such  a  prank  on 
me?  (Pauses)  You  seem  to  forget  that  I  am  a 
father  fighting  for  his  own.  (  FILSON  walks  down- 
stage  facing  audience  and  FULLERTON  looks  after 
him  and  speaks)  You're  a  bachelor,  Sam  Filson — • 
you  have  no  child.  ( FILSON  starts,  and  FULLERTON 
comes  down  toward  him)  Put  yourself  in  my  placet 
man — put  yourself  in  the  place  of  Hugh  Fullerton's 
father.  Perhaps  then  you  might  understand  a 
father's  feelings. 

FILSON.  (Speaking  slowly,  as  if  weighing  his 
words)  But  suppose  I  should  put  myself  in  the 
place  of  Ellen  Neal's  father?  Do  you  think  he 
should  fight  for  his  own? 

FULLERTON.  (After  a  pause)  Oh,  don't 
vaporize,  Sam.  (Pauses)  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
of  what  was  in  your  mind  all  these  years  instead 
of  keeping  it  bottled  up  to  let  out  on  me  in  this 
way? 

FILSON.  You  always  avoided  the  subject,  Dick. 
I  kept  your  son's  part  in  it  hushed  up,  as  you  wished. 
She  had  the  same  right  to  have  her  part  kept  quiet. 

FULLERTON.  I  can't  understand  why  you  have 
to  take  her  part. 

FILSON.  And  perhaps  it's  just  as  well  that  you 
don't  understand.  (Shakes  his  head)  Dick,  we 
come  of  a  class  that  keeps  such  matters  under  the 


90  COMMON  CLAY 

rose — that  teaches  its  young  to  hide  the  things  that 
its  fathers  hid.  Right  or  wrong,  we  learned  from 
youth  up.  (Pauses  and  shakes  his  head)  And 
you  can't  teach  an  old  dog  new  tricks.  (Hucii 
enters  coming  down-stairs.  FILSON  notices  him) 
Here  comes  Hugh.  Now  be  careful. 

HUGH.  (Entering  library)  How  are  you,  Judge 
Filson?  (  FILSON  and  HUGH  bow  and  HUGH  turns 
to  FULLERTON)  You  sent  for  me,  sir? 

FULLERTON.  Yes.  You  seem  to  have  planned  a 
pleasant  little  surprise  for  your  mother  and  for  me 
this  evening,  Hugh. 

HUGH.  I  can  explain — I  meant  to  explain  at  the 
proper  time. 

FULLERTON.  (Dryly)  Now  is  the  time.  (With 
heat)  Why  did  you  bring  that  women  here? 

HUGH.  I — we — (Indicating  FILSON)  wanted  you 
to  see  what  manner  of  woman  she  has  become. 

FULLERTON.  And  why,  pray  should  I  be  in 
terested  in  the  manner  of  woman  she  has  become  ? 

FILSON.  Hugh,  tell  him  everything.  Perhaps 
he'll  understand — (Walks  toward  stairway)  And 
then  I'll  bring  Ellen  downstairs.  I'll  leave  you  to 
gether,  and  see  you  later. 

(FULLERTON  watches  FILSON  going  up  stairway  and 
shakes  his  head  as  FILSON  exits  up.) 

FULLERTON.  I'm  sorry  you  have  listened  to 
Filson,  my  son.  He  has  put  his  own  Quixotic 
notions  into  your  head. 

HUGH.    I  know  what  I'm  doing,  father. 

FULLERTON.  Not  when  you  are  under  the  in 
fluence  of  that  woman. 

HUGH.  You  must  not  refer  to  her  as  "  that 
woman ".  (HUGH  and  FULLERTON  face  one  an* 
other) 

FULLERTON.     And  you  must  not  address  me  i& 


COMMON  CLAY  91 

such  a  tone — (Pauses)  You  were  glad  to  have  me 
stand  by  you  nine  years  ago  when  your  trouble 
arose  with  her.  (Pauses  and  his  tone  grows  softer) 
I  am  still  standing  by  you,  my  son.  (He  puts  his 
hand  on  HUGH'S  shoulder  and  speaks  with  feeling) 
There  is  nothing  stronger  than  a  father's  love.  (A 
long  pause.  The  two  men  look  at  one  another. 
Then  HUGH  speaks  in  tones  that  show  he  is  moved) 

HUGH.     I  know  that,  father,  as  well  as  you  do. 

FULLERTON.    How  can  you  know  ? 

HUGH.  Because  I,  too,  am  a  father.  (FULLER- 
TON  gives  HUGH  a  searching  look,  then  he  turns 
from  him  and  seats  himself  left  of  table,  looking  up 
at  his  son  as  if  for  an  explanation,  HUGH  sits 
right  of  table  and  continues)  When  I  first  saw 
Ellen  Neal  in  this  room  ten  years  ago  I  was  a 
thoughtless  boy  reared  to  a  sense  of  privilege,  but 
when  I  first  saw  her  son — and  realized  that  I  was 
the  father — I  became  a  man — filled  with  a  sense  of 
responsibility. 

FULLERTON.    You  have  seen  the — 

HUGH.  Yes,  often.  (Pauses)  One  day — about 
three  years  ago — Judge  Filson  called  me  to  his  office. 
I  went — and  the  boy  was  there — (Enthusiastically) 
a  healthy,  splendid  little  fellow — (Pauses)  He 
was  my  son. 

FULLERTON.    You  know — positively? 

HUGH.  One  glimpse  was  enough.  (HUGH  takes 
from  his  inner  pocket  a  photograph,  looks  at  it,  rous 
ing  an  interest  in  FULLERTON,  who  rises,  crosses  to 
HUGH,  and  looks  at  picture  which  HUGH  holds,  then 
takes  it  from  him  and  examines  it  more  closely. 
HUGH  notes  the  effect  on  his  father  as  the  latter 
realises) 

FULLERTON.  Your  son — beyond  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt.  (There  is  a  long  pause.  FULLERTON  seems 
to  be  considering  something.  He  looks  now  and 
again  at  the  picture,,  then  hands  it  back  tor  HUGH, 


92  COMMON  CLAY 

who  looks  at  it,  puts  it  back  in  his  pocket,  rises  and 
puts  his  hand  on  FULLERTON'S  shoulder) 

HUGH.  There  is  nothing  stronger  than  a  father's 
love. 

FULLERTON.  There  can  be  but  one  answer — to 
that — from  me. 

HUGH.  (After  a  pause)  As  soon  as  I  saw  my 
son  I  asked  Judge  Filson  if  he  could  tell  me  where 
the  boy's  mother  was.  He  sent  me  to  her  address 
in  New  York.  (Pauses)  When  I  found  her  there 
she  had  become  a  woman  that  any  man  might  wish 
to  marry.  It  made  me  hesitate  to  ask  her  to  marry 
me.  I  had  done  her  nothing  but  wrong.  I  did  not 
deserve  her  but  I  fell  in  love.  And  then  she  told  me 
that  she  loved  me — that  she  had  always  loved  me — 
(Pauses  and  seems  thoughtful,  speaking  slowly) 
The  greatest  love  sometimes  falls  on  one  who  de 
serves  it  least. 

FULLERTON.  (In  kindly  tone)  She  is  sincere — 
you  know  ? 

HUGH.  You  could  not  doubt  her  if  you  knew  her 
as  I  do.  She  loves  me,  she  is  the  mother  of  my 
son — (Speaks  slowly)  Judge  Filson  is  going  to 
bring  her  down  here  in  a  moment.  If  you  wish  her 
to  remain  among  us,  she  will  do  so.  If  you  wish 
her  to  go,  I  go  with  her. 

FULLERTON.  (Thinking)  Hugh,  would  you 
mind  letting  me  speak  with  her — just  a  few  mo 
ments?  Will  you  leave  the  room  when  they  come? 

HUGH.  (Considering)  Will  you  be  careful  to 
remember  that  she  is  our  guest — and  a  very  unwill 
ing  one?  I  had  to  beg  her  to  come  here,  and  I 
will  not  have  her  humiliated. 

FULLERTON.  I  shall  remember — I  promise.  (Up 
stairs — off-stage — door  heard  to  open  and  there 
floats  down  music  of  the  waltz  "  Destiny  " .  FULL 
ERTON  and  HUGH  look  up.  A  shadow  on  upper  wall 
rear  indicates  the  approach  of  persons  on  the  stair* 


COMMON  CLAY  93 

way)  Will  you  go — in  there?  (Indicates  door 
left.  HUGH  looks  at  him  and  then  exits  left,  as 
ELLEN  and  FILSON  enter  on  stairway  and  come 
down.  ELLEN  is  beautifully  gowned.  She  is  not 
combative  in  her  manner  as  she  looks  toward  FULL- 
ERTON.  She  is  rather  inclined  to  leave  matters  to 
FILSON,  on  whose  arm  she  leans.  They  walk  into 
the  library,  and  FILSON  looks  around  as  if  expecting 
to  see  HUGH) 

FILSON.     Where  is  Hugh? 

FULLERTON.  I  asked  him  to  let  me  speak  with 
Miss  Gail. 

( FILSON  looks  puzzled  and  ELLEN  gives  a  start  and 
looks  to  FILSON  as  if  for  guidance.) 

FILSON.     What  is  it  that  you  wish  to  say,  Dick? 

FULLERTON.  You  may  remain  with  us  and  hear. 
(Turning  to  ELLEN)  Won't  you  sit  down?  (ELLEN 
looks  to  FILSON  again  and  he  nods  compliance.  She 
seats  herself  rather  nervously)  Miss  Gail,  I  do  not 
wish  to  harass  your  feelings.  I  am  not  a  hard  man 
—I  am  simply  the  head  of  a  household  who  loves 
his  family  and  who  wishes  to  secure  for  his  chil 
dren  all  the  happiness  that  they  can  have — (Pause) 
I  naturally  take  an  interest  in  whoever  my  son  is  to 
marry. 

ELLEN.  I  understand.  It  is  only  because  of  that 
that  Hugh  could  persuade  me  to  come — here — 'to 
night. 

FULLERTON.  You  will  pardon  me,  Miss  Gail,  if  I 
say  that  there  are  many  things  about  this  whole 
matter  that  I  cannot  understand. 

ELLEN.  Perhaps  that  is  because  you  can't  under 
stand  a  woman  in  my  position,  Mr.  Fullerton — 
(Pauses  and  FULLERTON  looks  at  her  as  if  for  an 
explanation)  I  mean  that  you  can  only  understand 
your  kind  of  persons,  Mr.  Fullerton — both  men  and 
women — those  who  were  born  with  their  living 


94  COMMON  CLAY 

made  for  them,  their  thinking  done  for  them,  and 
their  morals  fixed  for  them.  You  don't  know  what 
it  is  to  have  to  make  your  own  life. 

FULLERTON.  I  may  not  be  able  to  grasp  all  the 
new  ideas  or  excuses  that  float  around  these  days, 
Miss  Gail,  but  I've  seen  life. 

ELLEN.  Yes,  you've  seen  life,  Mr.  Fullerton,  but 
I've  lived  it.  You've  stood  by  and  looked  on  while 
others  have  struggled — but  I've  struggled.  (She 
begins  to  break)  You  were  born  away  from  the 
fight — I  was  born  into  it.  But  I  can't  go  on  with 
this — (She  breaks) 

FILSON.  No,  DicK,  and  she  shall  not  be  made  to 
— what  is  it  you  want  us  to  do  ? 

FULLERTON.  Sam,  I  cannot  let  my  heart  run 
away  with  my  head,  as  you  have  done — as  Hugh 
wishes  to  do — (Pauses)  I  want  her  to  say  here  and 
now  that  she  will  give  up  my  son.  (ELLEN  starts. 
FULLERTON  watches  her  closely  and  speaks  to  her) 
He  thinks  he  loves  you  now,  but  if  you  marry  him 
you'll  both  regret  it. 

ELLEN.  (Hurt)  And  does  he  agree  to  give  me 
up? 

FULLERTON.  He  agreed  that  I  should  have  a  talk 
with  you. 

ELLEN.     (Anxiously)     Where  is  he? 

FULLERTON.     I  will  take  your  answer  to  him. 

ELLEN.     Mr.  Fullerton,  I  love  your  son  and  he — 

FULLERTON.  (Holding  up  his  hand)  If  you 
really  love  him  the  only  way  you  can  prove  it  is  by 
not  standing  in  the  way  of  his  happiness  He  thinks 
he  loves  you  now 

ELLEN.    But 

FULLERTON.  Surely,  there  can  be  no  argument 
to  that,  Miss  Gail.  Love,  to  be  worthy  at  all,  must 
be  unselfish.  The  only  way  you  can  prove  your 
love  is  to  be  willing  to  forego  it.  (ELLEN'S  lips 
quiver  but  she  controls  herself)  Hugh  has  a  place 


COMMON  CLAY  95 

in  the  world  to  maintain,  standards  to  be  guided  by, 
and — (Glancing  significantly  at  family  portraits) 
traditions,  handed  down  for  him  to  live  up  to. 
(Pauses  and  looks  at  ELLEN,  whose  eyes  have  fol* 
lozved  his  to  the  portraits,  and  who  is  visibly  af* 
fected)  If  you  really  care  for  him,  you  cannoW 
will  not — stand  in  his  way. 

ELLEN.  (Quickly  and  resolutely)  And  I  won't 
(She  rises,  with  one  hand  on  the  'table  for  support. 
Her  voice  is  low  as  she  tries  to  suppress  her  enio* 
tion)  Hugh  has  many  traditions  to  live  up  to,  but 
there  is  only  one  that  was  handed  down  to  me — (She 
and  FILSON  exchange  looks  of  mutual  understand* 
ing}  I  won't  tell  you  what  it  is,  but  it's  enough  to 
keep  me  from  standing  in  the  way  of  the  man  I 
love — (She  pauses.  FILSON  starts,  then  gives  her  a 
grateful  look)  If  you  have  persuaded  Hugh  to 
think  as  you  do — (Her  voice  breaks,  she  catches 
herself)  I'll  give  him  up. 

(FILSON  crosses  to  ELLEN,  starts  to  kiss  her  fore- 
head,  but  catches  himslf,  takes  her  hand,  shakes 
it,  and  looks  at  her  silently  for  a  moment,  then 
turns  to  FULLERTON.) 

FILSON.    You  can't  ask  more  than  that,  Dick. 

(FULLERTON  looks  at  FILSON,  there  is  a  long  pause,, 
and  then  FULLERTON  walks  to  door  left.  He 
puts  his  hand  on  the  doorknob,  turns  to  FILSON 
and  smiles.) 

FULLERTON.  You're  right,  Sam,  no  man  could 
ask  more — of  any  woman.  (Opening  door,  he  calls 
off-stage)  Hugh 

(HUGH  enters,  he  looks  about  him,  trying  to  grasp 
the  situation.  FULLERTON  motions  him  toward 


96  COMMON  CLAY 

ELLEN.  FILSON,  surprised  and  pleased,  releases 
ELLEN'S  hand.  HUGH  crosses  and  takes  her  in 
his  arms.  Slowly  ELLEN  realizes  and  smiles. 
FILSON  crosses  to  FULLERTON,  grasping  his 
hand  fervently.  The  two  old  men  stand  look^ 
ing  at  the  couple  a  moment,  then  FULLERTON 
takes  FILSON 's  arm  and  guides  him  toward  the 
stairway.  They  cross  and  go  up  the  stairs  as 
HUGH  and  ELLEN  sit  on  the  sofa,  and 

The  curtain  falls 

{The    off-stage    music — "Destiny" — continues    tq 
play  after  the  fall  of  the  curtain.) 


The  Return  of  Hi  Jinks 

A  comedy  in  four  acts,  by  Marion  Short,  author  of  "The  Varsity 
Coach,"  "The  Touch-Down,"  etc.  6  males,  8  females.  Costumes 
modern.  One  interior  scene. 

This  comedy  is  founded  upon  and  elaborated  from  a  farce  comedy 
In  two  acts  written  by  J.  H.  Horta,  and  originally  produced  at  Tuft's 
College. 

Hiram  Poynter  Jinks,  a  Junior  in  Hoosic  College  (Willie  Collier 
type),  and  a  young  moving  picture  actress  (Mary  Pickford  type),  are 
the  leading  characters  in  this  lively,  modern  farce. 

Thomas  Hodge,  a  Senior,  envious  of  the  popularity  of  Jinks,  wishes 
to  think  up  a  scheme  to  throw  ridicule  upon  him  during  a  visit  of 
the  Hoosic  Glee  Club  to  Jinks's  home  town.  Jinks  has  obligingly  acted 
as  a  one-day  substitute  in  a  moving  picture  play,  in  which  there  is  a 
fire  scene,  and  this  gives  Hodge  his  cue.  He  sends  what  seems  to 
be  a  bona  fide  account  of  Jink's  heroism  at  a  Hoosic  fire  to  Jink's 
home  paper.  Instead  of  repudiating  his  laurels  as  expected,  Jinks 
decides  to  take  a  flyer  in  fame,  confirms  the  fake  story,  confesses  to 
being  a  hero  and  is  adored)  by  all  the  girls,  to  the  chagrin  and  dis» 
eomfiture  of  Hodge.  Of  course,  the  truth  comes  out  at  last,  but 
Jinks  is  not  hurt  thereby,  and  his  romance  with  Mimi  Mayflower 
comes  to  a  successful  termination. 

This  is  a  great  comedy  for  amateurs.  It  is  full  of  funny  situations 
and  is  sure  to  please.  Price,  30  Cents. 


J 


une 

A  most  successful  comedy-drama  in  four  acts,  by  Marie  Doran, 
author  of  "The  New  Co-Ed, "  "Tempest  and  Sunshine,"  "Dorothy's 
Neighbors,"  etc.  4  males,  8  females.  One  interior  scene.  Costumes 
modern.  Plays  2J4  hours. 

This  play  has  a  very  interesting  group  of  young  people.  June  is- 
an  appealing  little  figure,  an  orphan  living  with  her  aunt.  There  are 
a  number  of  delightful,  life-like  characters:  the  sorely  tried  likeable 
Mrs.  Hopkins,  the  amusing,  haughty  Miss  Banks  of  the  glove  depart 
ment,  the  lively  Tilly  and  Milly,  who  work  in  the  store,  and  ambitious 
Snoozer;  Mrs.  Hopkins's  only  son,  who  aspires  to  be  President  of  the 
United  States,  but  finds  his  real  sphere  is  running  the  local  trolley 
car.  The  play  is  simplicity  itself  in  the  telling  of  an  every-day  story, 
and  the  scenic  requirements  call  for  only  one  set,  a  room  in  the 
boarding  house  of  Mrs.  Hopkins,  while  an  opportunity  is  afforded  to 
introduce  any  number  of  extra  characters.  Musical  numbers  may  be 
introduced,  if  desired.  Price,  30  Cents, 

Tempest  and  Sunshine 

A  comedy  drama  in  four  acts,  by  Marie  Doran.  5  males  and  3 
females.  One  exterior  and  three  interior  scenes.  Plays  about  2  hours,. 

Every  school  girl  has  revelled  in  the  sweet  simplicity  and  gentle 
ness  of  the  characters  interwoven  in  the  charms  that  Mary  J.  Holmes 
commands  in  her  story  cf  "Tempest  and  Sunshine."  We  can  strongly 
recommend  this  play  as  one  of  the  best  plays  for  high  school  pro 
duction  published  in  recent  years.  Price,  30  Cents« 

(The  Above  Are  Subject  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 
SAMUEL  FRENCH,  28-30  West  38th  Street,  New  York  Cltj 

Hew  and  Explicit  Descriptive  Catalogue  Mailed  Free   ei  Renuetf 


The  Touch-Down 

A  comedy  in  four  acts,  by  Marion  Short.  8  males,  6  females,  but 
any  number  of  characters  can  be  introduced  in  the  ensembles.  Cos 
tumes  modern.  One  interior  scene  throughout  the  play.  Time,  2Y» 
hours. 

This  play,  written  for  the  use  of  clever  amateurs,  is  the  story  of 
life  in  Siddell,  a  Pennsylvania  co-educational  college.  It  deals  with 
the  vicissitudes  and  final  triumph  of  the  Siddell  Football  EJeren,  and 
the  humorous  and  dramatic  incidents  connected  therewith. 

"The  Touch-Down"  has  the  true  varsity  atmosphere,  college  songs 
are  sung,  and  the  piece  is  lively  and  entertaining  throughout.  High 
schools  will  make  no  mistake  in  producing  this  play.  We  strongly 
recommend  it  as  a  high-class  and  well-written  comedy. 

Price,  30  Centa 

Hurry,  Hurry,  Hurry 

A  comedy  in  three  acts,  by  LeRoy  Arnold.  5  males,  4  females. 
One  interior  scene.  Costumes  modern.  Plays  2y\  hours. 

The  story  is  based  on  the  will  of  an  eccentric  aunt.  It  stipulates 
that  her  pretty  niece  must  be  affianced  before  she  is  twenty-one,  and 
married  to  her  fiance  within  a  year,  if  she  is  to  get  her  spinstef 
relative's  million.  Father  has  nice  notions  of  honor  and  fails  to  tell 
daughter  about  the  will,  so  that  she  may  make  her  chcice  untram- 
meled  by  any  other  consideration  than  that  of  true  lov«..  The  action 
all  takes  place  in  the  evening  the  midnight  of  which  will  see  her 
reach  twenty-one.  Time  is  therefore  short,  and  it  is  hurry,  hurry, 
hurry,  if  she  is  to  become  engaged  and  thus  save  her  father  fronj 
impending  bankruptcy. 

The  situations  are  intrinsically  funny  and  the  dialogue  is  sprightly. 
The  characters  are  natural  and  unaffected  and  the  action  moves  with 
a  snap  such  as  should  be  expected  from  its  title.  Price,  30  Cents 

The  Varsity  Coach 

A  three-act  play  of  college  life,  by  Marion  Short,  specially  adapted 
to  performance  by  amateurs  or  high  school  students.  5  males  6 
females,  but  any  number  of  boys  and  girls  may  be  introduced  in  the 
action  of  the  play.  Two  settings  necessary,  a  college  boy's  room  and 
1he  university  campus.  Time,  about  2  hours. 

Like  many  another  college  boy,  "Bob"  Selby,  an  all-round  popular 
college  man,  becomes  possessed  of  the  idea  that  athletic  prowess  is 
more  to  be  desired  than  scholarship.  He  is  surprised  in  the  midst  ox 
n  "spread"  in  his  room  in  Regatta  week  by  a  visit  from  his  aunr 
who  is  putting  him  through  college.  Aunt  Serena,  "a  lady  of  the  old 
school  and  the  dearest  little  woman  in  the  whole  world/"  has  hastened 
to  make  this  visit  to  her  adored  nephew  under  the  mistaken  impression 
that  he  is  about  to  receive  the  Fellowes  prize  for  scholarship.  Her 
grief  and  chagrin  when  she  learns  that  instead  of  the  prize  Robert 
has  received  "a  pink  card,"  which  is  equivalent  to  suspension  for  poor 
scholarship,  gives  a  touch  of  pathos  to  an  otherwise  jolly  comedy  of 
college  life.  How  the  repentant  Robert  more  than  redeems  himself, 
carries  off  honors  at  the  last,  and  in  the  end  wins  Ruth,  the  faithful 
little  sweetheart  of  the  "Prom"  and  the  classroom,  makes  a  story  of 
dramatic  interest  and  brings  out  very  clearly  certain  phases  of  modern 
college  life.  There  are  several  opportunities  for  the  introduction  of 
college  songs  and  "stunts."  Price,  30  Cents, 

(The  Above  Are  Subject  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 
SAMUEL  FRENCH,  28-30  West  38th  Street,  New  York  City 

Haw  art  Explicit   Dftscriotivi  Catalog  Mailed   Fne  ca  Riauut 


JUST  PUBLISHED 

Nothing  But  the  Truth 

A  Farcical  Comedy  in  Three  Acts 

By 

James  Montgomery 
Cast  of  Characters 

jrfob  Bennett 

B.  M.  Ralston 

Clarence  Van  Dusen 

Bishop  Doran 

Dick  Donnelly 

Gwen 

Mrs.  Ralston 

Ethel 

Mable 

Sable 

Martha 

SCENES 

ACT  ±.    A  Broker's  Office 

ACT  2.     Parlor  of  a  Country  Home 

ACT  3. 

TIME:     The  Present 

"Nothing  But  the  Truth"  is  built  upon  the  simple  fde« 
of  its  hero  speaking  nothing  but  the  absolute  truth  I'or  a 
stated  period.  He  bets  a  friend  ten  thousand  dollar* 
that  he  can  do  it,  and  boldly  tackles  truth  to  win  the 
money.  For  a  very  short  time  ths  task  is  placidly  easy, 
but  Truth  routs  out  old  man  Trouble  and  then  things  be 
gin  to  happen.  Trouble  doesn't  seem  very  large  and 
aggressive  when  he  first  pokes  his  nose  into  the  noble 
resolve  of  our  hero,  but  he  grows  rapidly  and  soon  we 
see  our  dealer  in  truth  disrupting  the  domestic  relations 
of  his  partner.  In  fact,  Trouble  works  overtime,  and 
reputations  that  have  been  unblemished  are  smirched. 
Situations  that  are  absurd  and  complications  almost 
knotted,  pile  up,  all  credited  to  Truth,  and  the  result  of 
the  wager  to  foster  and  cherish  that  great  virtue  from 
the  lips  of  the  man  who  has  espoused  the  cause  of  truth 
to  win  a  wager. 

It  is  a  novel  idea  and  so  well  has  it  been  worked  out 
that  an  audience  is  kept  in  throes  of  laughter  at  the 
seemingly  impossible  task  to  untangle  snarls  into  which 
our  hero  has  involved  all  those  he  comes  into  contact 
\vith.  It  is  a  clean  bright  farce  of  well  drawn  character* 
and  was  built  for  laughing  purposes  only. 

William  Collier  played  "Nothing  But  the  Truth"  for  a 
year  at  the  Longacre  Theatre,  New  York,  and  it  has  been 
on  tour  for  over  two  seasons. 

After  three  years  continuous  success  on  the  profess-* 
ional  stage  we  are  now  offering  "Nothing  But  the  Truth"' 
for  amateur  production.  It  is  one  of  the  funniest  and 
brightest  farces  ever  written,  and  it  is  admirably  suite« 
to  amateur  production. 

PaiCE  60  CENTS 


JP8T  PUBLISHKO. 

CHRISTOPHER  JUNIOR, 

A  Comedy  in  4  Acts.  By  Madeleine  Lucette  Ryley.  Modern  coft 
Time,  2^  hours.  Three  interior  scenes;  8  males,  4  femalea 
Christopher  Jedbury,  Jr.,  having  accidentally  placed  himself  in  a) 
anfortunate  position  with  a  lady  in  the  West  Indies,  is  forced  tfi 
znarry  her  without  seeing  her.  He  returns  to  England.  His  fathei 
*ands  out  about  the  marriage,  quarrels  with  him,  and  turns  him  out 
Jedbury,  Jr.,  goes  to  India  as  a  clerk  in  his  father's  office,  theifl 
iiscovers  defalcations  by  the  manager,  and  falls  in  love  with  Bora 
Bedway.  He  is  reconciled  to  his  father,  and  Dora,  turns  out  to  bf 
is  wife,  Highly  recommended  for  amateurs* 

Price,  60  Cents. 


MICE  AND  MEN 

A  Romantic  Comedy.  Four  Acts.  By  Madeleine  Lucette  Ryicj 
Costume  about  1786.  Time,  2  hours,  30  minutes.  Three  interior, 
one  exterior  scene ;  7  males,  5  f  emaJes.  Mark  Embury,  a  man  of  oves 
forty,  is  of  opinion  that  the  perfect  wife  must  be  educated  from  s 
state  of  ignorance  and  simplicity  to  the  ideal  of  the  man  she  is  about 
to  marry.  He  accordingly  proceeds  to  impart  his  views  to  a  girl 
fresh  from  the  Foundling.  His  young  nephew  comes  on  the  scene, 
and  Embury  realizes  that  nature  intended  the  young  to  mate  with 
the  young.  This  beautiful  costume  comedy  can  be  played  by  all 
females,  and  is  highly  recommended  for  use  by  girls'  schools  and 
Colleges.  This  play  was  originally  produced  by  Mr.  Charles  Froh- 
man  witk  Miss  Annie  RusselJ  in  the  leading  role. 

Price,  60  Cents. 


SNUG   LITTLE   KINGDOM       , 

,  A  Comedy  in  3  Acts.  By  Mark  Ambient.  Modern  costume 
Time,  2J  hours.  One  interior  scene  throughout;  3  males,  4  femalea, 
Bernard  Gray,  a  composer  of  music,  lives  in  a  garret  in  Soho.  Under 
his  charge  is  a  young  girl  in  the  ballet,  whose  mother  had  died  whe? 
she  was  young.  Hubert  Gray,  the  brother  of  Bernard,  rescues  I 
wealthy  old  gentleman  from  an  accident  the  latter  eventually  ULTB 
frig  out  to  be  the  girl's  father, 

Price.  60 


BILLETED. 

A  comedy  in  3  acts,  by  F.  Termison  Jesse  and  H.  Harwood.  4 
5  females.  One  easy  interior  scene.  A  charming  comedy,  cons 
with  uncommon  skill,  and  abounds  with  clever  lines.  Margaret  A 
big  success.  Amateurs  will  find  this  comedy  easy  to  produce  and  i 
with  all  audiences.  Price,  6( 

NOTHING  BUT  THE  TRUTH. 

A  comedy  in  3  acts.  By  James  Montgomery.  5  males,  6  females 
tumes,  modern.  Two  interior  scenes.  Plays  2T/2  hours. 

Is  it  possible  to  tell  the  absolute  truth— even  for  twenty-four  hours? 
at    least    Bob    Bennett,    the    hero   of    "Nothing   But    the    Truth,"    accomplisl 
feat.    The  bet  he  made  with   his  business  partners,  and  the  trouble  he   go 
with    his    partners,    his    friends,    and    his    fiancee— this    is    the    subject    of 
Collier's  tremendous  comedy  hit.     "Nothing  But  the  Truth"  can  be  whole-h< 
recommended   as   one  of  the  most   sprightly,   amusing  and  popular   cpmedi 
this  country  can  boast.  Price,  6( 

IN  WALKED  JIMMY. 

A  comedy  in  4  acts,  by  Minnie  Z.  Jaffa.  10  males,  2  females  (al 
any  number  of  males  and  females  may  be  used  as  clerks,  etc.) 
interior  scenes.  Costumes,  modern.  Plays  2l/2  hours.  The  thin 
which  Jimmy  walked  was  a  broken-down  shoe  factory,  when  the 
had  all  been  fired,  and  when  the  proprietor  was  in  serious  contem 
of  suicide. 

Jimmy,  nothing  else  but  plain  Jimmy,  would  have  been  a  mysterious 
had  it  not  been  for  his  matter-of-fact  manner,  his  smile  and  his  eve 
humanness.  He  put  the  shoe  business  on  its  feet,  won  the  heart  of  t 
clerk,  saved  her  erring  brother  from  jail,  escaped  that  place  as  a  per 
boarding  house  himself,  and  foiled  the  villain. 

Clean,  wholesome  comedy  with  just  a  touch   of  human   nature,   just  a 
excitement  and  more  than  a  little  bit  of  true  philosophy  make  "In  Walked 
one   of   the   most   delightful   of   plays.    Jimmy    is    full    of   the   religion   of   1 
religion    of   happiness    and    the    religion    of   helpfulness^    and    he    so   permea 
atmosphere   with   his   "religion"   that  everyone   is   happy.    The    spirit   of   op 
good  cheer,  and  hearty  laughter  dominates  the  play.    There  is  not  a  dull  : 
in  any  of  the  four  acts.    We  strongly   recommend  it.  Price,  6C 

MARTHA  BY-THE-DAY. 

An  optimistic  comedy  in  three  acts,  by  Julie  M.  Lippmann,  aut 
the  "Martha"  stories.  5  males,  5  females.  Three  interior  scenes, 
tumes  modern.  Plays  2l/2  hours. 

It  is  altogether  a  gentle  thing,  this  play.  It  is  full  of  quaint  hum< 
fashioned,  homely  sentiment,  the  kind  that  people  who  see  the  play  wil 
and  chuckle  over  tomorrow  and  the  next  day. 

Miss  Lippmann  has  herself  adapted  her  very  successful  book  for  stage 
and  in  doing  this  has  selected  from  her  novel  the  most  telling  incidents,  in 
comedy  and  homely  sentiment  for  the  play,  and  the  result  is  thoroughly  del 

Price,  6( 

(The  Above  Are  Subject  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 

1 


THE  REJUVENATION  OF  AUNT  MARY. 

The  famous  comedy  in  three  acts,  by  Anne  Warner.  7  males,  6 
males.  Three  Interior  scenes.  Costumes  modern.  Plays  2*4  hours. 

This  is  a  genuinely  funny  comedy  with  splendid  parts  for  "Aunt  Mary," 
ack,"  her  lively  nephew;  "Lucinda,"  a  New  England  ancient  maid  of  all  work; 
ack's"  three  chums;  the  Girl  "Jack"  loves;  "Joshua,"  Aunt  Mary's  hired 
in,  etc. 

"Aunt  Mary"  was  played  by  May  Robson  in  New  York  and  on  tour  for  over 
o  years,  and  it  is  sure  to  be  a  big  success  wherever  produced.  We  strongly 
:ommend  it.  Price,  60  Cents. 

MRS.  BUMSTEAD-LEIGH. 

A  pleasing  comedy,  in  three  acts,  by  Harry  James  Smith,  author  of 
rhe  Tailor-Made  Man."  6  males,  6  females.  One  interior  scene.  Cos- 
mes  modern.  Plays  21/^  hours. 

Mr.  Smith  chose  for4  his  initial  comedy  the  complications  arising  from  the 
deavors  of  a  social  climber  to  land  herself  in  the  altitude  peopled  by  hyphenated 
mes— a  theme  permitting  innumerable  complications,  according  to  the  spirit  of 
e  writer. 

This  most  successful  comedy  was  toured  for  several  seasons  by  Mrs.  Fiske 
Ih  enormous  success.  Price,  60  Cents. 

MRS.  TEMPLE'S  TELEGRAM. 

A  most  successful  farce  in  three  acts,  by  Frank  Wyatt  and  William 
Morris.  5  males,  4  females.  One  interior  scene  stands  throughout  the 
ree  acts.  Costumes  modern.  Plays  2J^  hours. 

"Mrs.  Temple's  Telegram"  is  a  sprightly  farce  in  which  there  is  an  abund- 
;ce  of  fun  without  any  taint  of  impropriety  or  any  element  of  offence.  As 
iticed  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  "Oh,  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave  when  first  we 
actice  to  deceive!" 

There  is  not  a  dull  moment  in  the  entire  farce,  and  from  the  time  the  curtain 
ses  until  it  makes  the  final  drop  the  fun  is  fast  and  furious.  A  very  exceptional 
rce.  Price,  60  Cents. 

THE  NEW  CO-ED. 

A  comedy  in  four  acts,  by  Marie  Doran,  author  of  "Tempest  and 
unshine,"  etc.  Characters^  4  males,  7  females,  though  any  number  of 
)ys  and  girls  can  be  introduced  in  the  action  of  the  play.^  One  interior 
id  one  exterior  scene,  but  can  be  easily  played  in  one  interior  scene, 
ostumes  modern.  Time,  about  2  hours. 

The  theme  of  this  play  is  the  coming  of  a  new  student  to  the  college,  her 
ception  by  the  scholars,  her  trials  and  final  triumph. 

There   are    three    especially    good    girls'    parts,    Letty,    Madge    and    Estelle,    but 
ie  others  have  plenty   to  do.     "Punch"   Doolittle  and  George  Washington  Watts, 
gentleman    of    color,    are    two    particularly    good    comedy    characters.      We    can 
rongly    recommend   "The   New   Co-Ed"   to  high   schools   and   amateurs. 

Price,  30  Centsi 

(The  Above  Are  Subject  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 


DOROTHY'S  NEIGHBORS. 

A  brand  new  comedy  in  four  acts,  by  Marie  Doran,  author  of  "1 
New  Co-Ed,"  "Tempest  and  Sunshine,"  and  many  other  successful  pla 
4  males,  7  females.  The  scenes  are  extremely  easy  to  arrange ;  two  pi; 
interiors  and  one  exterior,  a  garden,  or,  if  necessary,  the  two  interi< 
will  answer.  Costumes  modern.  Plays  2>l/2  hours. 

The  story  is  about  vocational  trainimg,  a  subject  now  widely  discussed;  a] 
the  distribution  of  large  wealth. 

Bick  of  the  comedy  situation  and  snappy  dialogue  there  is  good  logic  ; 
\  sound  moral  in  this  pretty  play,  which  is  worthy  the  attention  of  the  exp< 
enced  amateur.  It  is  a  clean,  wholesome  play,  particularly  suited  to  high  sch 
production.  Price,  30  Cei 


MISS  SOMEBODY  ELSE. 

A  modern  play  in  four  acts  by  Marion  Short,  author  of  "The  Tou< 
down,"  etc.  6  males,  10  females.  Two  interior  scenes.  Costumes  me 
ern.  Plays  2*4  hours. 

This  delightful  comedy  has  gripping  dramatic  moments,  unusual  charac 
types,  a  striking  and  original  plot  and  is  essentially  modern  in  theme  and  tre 
ment.  The  story  concerns  the  adventures  of  Constance  Darcy,  a  multi-milli 
aire's  young  daughter.  Constance  embarks  on  a  trip  to  find  a  young  man  v 
had  been  in  her  father's  employ  and  had  stolen  a  large  sum  of  money.  5 
almost  succeeds,  when  suddenly  all  traces  of  the  young  man  are  lost.  At  t 
point  she  meets  some  old  friends  who  are  living  in  almost  want  and,  in  order 
assist  them  through  motives  benevolent,  she  determines  to  sink  her  own  aris 
cratic  personality  in  that  of  a  refined  but  humble  little  Irish  waitress  with 
family  that  are  in  want.  She  not  only  carries  her  scheme  to  success  in  assist 
the  family,  but  finds  romance  and  much  tense  and  lively  adventure  during 
period  of  her  incognito,  aside  from  capturing  the  young  man  who  had  defraui 
her  father.  The  story  is  full  of  bright  comedy  lines  and  dramatic  situations  : 
is  highly  recommended  for  amateur  production.  This  is  one  of  the  best  cot 
dies  we  have  ever  offered  with  a  large  number  of  female  characters.  The  dialoi 
is  bright  and  the  play  is  full  of  action  from  start  to  finish;  not  a  dull  moment 
it.  This  is  a  great  comedy  for  high  schools  and  colleges,  and  the  wholesc 
story  will  please  the  parents  and  teachers.  We  strongly  recommend  it. 

Price,  30  Cei 


PURPLE  AMD  FINE  LINEN. 

An  exceptionally  pretty  comedy  of  Puritan  New  England,  in  fh 
acts,  by  Amita  B.  Fairgrieve  and  Helena  Miller.  9  male,  5  female  ch 
acters. 

This  is  the  Lend  A  Hand  Smith  College  prize  play.  It  is  an  admirable  p 
for  amateurs,  is  rich  in  character  portrayal  of  varied  types  and  is  not  too  diffic 
while  thoroughly  pleasing.  Price,  30  Cer 

(The  Above  Are  Subject  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 
SAMUEL  FRENCH,  28-30  West  38th  Street,  New  York  City 

New  and  Explicit  Descriptive  Catalogue  Mailed  Free  en  Request 


BILLETED. 

A  comedy  in  3  acts,  by  F.  Tennison  Jesse  and  H.  Harwood.  4  males, 
females.  One  easy  interior  scene.  A  charming  comedy,  constructed 
th  uncommon  skill,  and  abounds  with  clever  lines.  Margaret  Anglin's 
r  success.  Amateurs  will  find  this  comedy  easy  to  produce  and  popular 
th  all  audiences.  Price>  60  CemtSt 

NOTHING  BUT  THE  TRUTH. 

A  comedy  in  3  acts.  By  James  Montgomery.  5  males,  6  females.  Cos- 
nes,  modern.  Two  interior  scenes.  Plays  2^  hours. 

Is  it  possible  to  tell  the  absolute  truth— even  for  twenty-four  hours?  It  is— 
least  Bob  Bennett,  the  hero  of  ;'Nothing  But  the  Truth,"  accomplished  the 
t.  The  bet  he  made  with  his  business  partners,  and  the  trouble  he  got  into — 
:h  his  partners,  his  friends,  and  his  fiancee— this  is  the  subject  of  William 
llier's  tremendous  comedy  hit.  "Nothing  But  the  Truth"  can  be  whole-heartedly 
:ommended  as  one  of  the  most  sprightly,  amusing  and  popular  comedies  that 
s  country  can  boast.  Price,  60  Cents. 

IN  WALKED  JIMMY. 

A  comedy  in  4  acts,  by  Minnie  Z.  Jaffa.  10  males,  2  females  (although 
y  number  of  males  and  females  may  be  used  as  clerks,  etc.)  Two 
erior  scenes.  Costumes,  modern.  Plays  2^  hours.  The  thing  into 
ich  Jimmy  walked  was  a  broken-down  shoe  factory,  when  the  clerks 
d  aj^been  fired,  and  when  the  proprietor  was  in  serious  contemplation 
suicide. 

Jimmy,  nothing  else^  but  plain  Jimmy,  would  have  been  a  mysterious  figure 
i  it  not  been  for  his  matter-of-fact  manner,  his  smile  and  his  everlasting 
tnanness.  He  put  the  shoe  business  on  its  feet,  won  the  heart  of  the  girl 
rk,  saved  her  erring  brother  from  jail,  escaped  tfa-at  place  as  a  permanent 
irding  house  himself,  and  foiled  the  villain. 

Clean,  wholesome  comedy  with  just  a  touch  of  human  nature,  just  a  dash  of 
:itement  and  more  than  a  little  bit  of  true  philosophy  make  "In  Walked  Jimmy" 
5  of  the  most  delightful  of  plays.  Jimmy  is  full  of  the  religion  of  life,  the 
igion  of  happiness  and  the  religion  of  helpful»eag4  and  he  so  permeates  the 
Qosphere  with  his  "religion"  that  everyone  is  happy.  The  spirit  of  optimism, 
Dd  cheer,  and  hearty  laughter  dominates  the  play.  Ther«,  is  not  a  dull  moment 
any  of  the  .four  acts.  We  strongly  recommend  it.  Priee,  60  Cents. 

MARTHA  BY-THE-DAY. 

An  optimistic  comedy  in  three  acts,  by  Julie  M.  Lippmaiw,  author  of 
*  "Martha"  stories.  5  males,  5  females.  Three  interior  scenes.  Cos- 
nes  modern.  Plays  y&  hours. 

It  is  altogether  a  gentle  thing,  this  play.  It  is  full  of  quaint  humor,  old- 
ftioned,  homely  sentiment,  the  kind  that  people  who  see  the  play  will  recall 
i  chtiokle  over  tomorrow  and  the  next  day. 

-Miss  Lippmann  has  he?seK  adapted  her  very  successful  b 
3  in  doirug~  this  has  selected  from  her  novel  the  mogt  tellin 
and  homely  sentiment  for  the  play,  and  the  result  is  t 

(The  Above  Are  Subject  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 

^iKammurmmmmaaamamBMmmamaaaafm>mafmtm*m iiim •umaiiiMini  in'  ^saxttim  urn  »«» n riam^Bg^aa* 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  28«39  West  38th  Street,  New  York  City 

New  and  Explicit  Descriptive  Catalogue  Mailed  Free  on  Request 


FRENCH'S 

Standard  Library  Edition 


Clyde  Fitch 

William  Gillette 

Augustus  Thomas 

George  Broadhuret 

Edward  £.  Kidder 

Percy  Mac  Kay e 

Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle 

Louis  N.  Parker 

R.  C.  Carton 

Alfred  Sutro 

Richard  Harding  Davis 

Sir  Arthur  W.  Pinero 

Anthony  Hope 

Oscar  Wilde 

Haddon  Chambers 

Jerome  K.  Jerome 

Cosmo  Gordon  Lennox 

H.  V.  Esmond 

Mark  Swan 

Grace  L.  Furniss 

Marguerite  Merrington 

Hermann  Sudermann 

Rida  Johnson  Young 

Arthur  Law 

Rachel  Crothers 

Martha  Morton 

H.  A.  Du  Souchet 

W.  W.  Jacobs 

Madeleine   Lucette   Ryley 


Includes  Plays  by 

Booth  Tarlrington 
J.  Hartley  Manners 
James  Forbes 
James  Montgomery 
Wm.  C.  de  Mille 
Roi  Cooper  Megrue 
Edward  E.  Rose 
Israel  Zangwill 
Henry  Bernstein 
Harold  Brighouse 
Channing  Pollock 
Harry  Durant 
Winchell  Smith 
Margaret  Mayo 
Edward  Peple 
A.  E.  W.  Mason 
Charles  Klein 
Henry  Arthur  Jones 
A.  E.  Thomas 
Fred.  Ballard 
Cyril  Harcourt 
Carlisle  Moore 
Ernest  Denny 
Laurence  Housman 
Harry  James  Smith 
Edgar  Selwyn 
Augustin  McHugh 
Robert  Housum 
Charles  Kenyon 
C.  M.  S.  McLellan 


French's  International  Copyrighted  Edition  con 
tains  plays,  comedies  and  farces  of  international 
reputation;  also  recent  professional  successes  by 
famous  American  and  English  Authors. 
Send  a  four-cent  stamp  for  our  new  catalogue 
describing  thousands  of  plays. 

SAMUEL    FRENCH 

Oldest  Play  Publisher  in  the  World 
28-30  West  38th  Street,       NEW  YORK  CITY 


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